


a dream of you and me

by petitepeach



Series: maybe it starts now [7]
Category: SKAM (France)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Communication, Fluff, M/M, Purple Prose, bc that's a scary place, but they'll be alright, dreams as a vehicle for true love babehhh, italics wilding out, so many heart to hearts in this my god, the fluffiest, they're both feeling anxious about the future, truly business as usual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:09:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 43,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22536031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/petitepeach/pseuds/petitepeach
Summary: They kiss, and it's a kiss borne out of excitement, of the giddy rush of youth mixed with endless time and possibility, but it’s also a kiss of reassurance, a smallI’m here with youand a beautifully comforting,I think we’ll be okay, the two of us.or, there is love, and everything else will follow
Relationships: Eliott Demaury/Lucas Lallemant
Series: maybe it starts now [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1365805
Comments: 67
Kudos: 251





	a dream of you and me

**Author's Note:**

> we made it 💫
> 
> i'm uploading this much later than i intended to, but it also ran away from me a bit, nearly doubling in size from what i thought it would originally be (y i k e s)
> 
> this is the last official part of misn, however it is extremely likely that i'll be posting a small epilogue at some point, probably something taking place after they leave uni 👀
> 
> (disclaimer: i don't know a goshdarn thing about art school, so i'm sorry for any/all inaccuracies there)
> 
> fic title from the song by future islands
> 
> and now, get yourself a beverage, some snacks and get cozy, because here we go 💞

_Eliott — I_

Eliott Demaury is dreaming.

It’s a good dream, the one he’s having, the kind that paints your subconscious in pastel blues and muted pinks, where time doesn’t flow so much as drift, where one moment slips to another as easily as silk over skin, and everything feels infinitely warm and soft and tender. A dream like a well-worn kitted blanket. A dream like a solar flare passing over a childhood memory.

It’s the kind of dream that makes singers sway from side to side with their eyelids fluttering shut. It tastes like a fresh pastry and smells like laundry drying in the wind. It makes nightmares envious. Makes the stars long for rest.

In Eliott’s dream he’s wandering through a meadow barefoot and he’s letting his hands brush over the petals of every wildflower, tilts his head back to feel the sun on his face and this place, this place is nice, isn’t it? It’s warm, so warm, and Eliott’s bones feel heavy, he thinks he might sink down to the grass and sleep here, it’s so nice here, so nice, so nice…

Then there’s a hand, a hand that is a regular hand but also not a regular hand because when it touches Eliott’s shoulder it feels like a butterfly kiss from a rocketship or a sunrise or something he doesn’t know what but it’s a feeling like he has to turn around, who is this, who carries this hand, _ah._

He’s staring at the sun, no, there’s a face blocking the sun, _huh_ , it is the sun-face, face-sun, who is this, who is this face, _ah_ , leaning forward and Eliott sees blue, bright blue, deepest blue, but then he sees brown like fallen leaves in a stream and he sees pink, deep like rose petals so soft he wants to touch, _Can I touch?_ Of course you can touch, Eliott. I’m yours, didn’t you know? I’ve always been yours.

 _Mine._ The sun belongs to Eliott. _Mine._ That’s the sort of thing only kings can have. _Mine._ Is Eliott a king? _Mine._ Is he king of the sun and the moon and the meadow the flowers the breeze the grass? _All mine._

I’m yours. Eyes staring so intently, rocketship sunrise hands touching him, _oh_ , they’re touching him it feels so good nothing has ever felt this good wait no good isn’t good enough to describe it is there a better word a word that feels like ephemeral but lasts as long as stone? I’m yours, Eliott.

Eliott is sinking back into the grass. It’s soft it catches him like a bed but is it not his bed? Is he not king of the meadow the moon and the sun, the sun leaning over him, blocking out the sun, there’s two suns one bright one brighter both making him shut his eyes to a rose petal touch on his lids drifting down to his cheeks the grass is soft but the hands and the rose petal lips are softer. Eliott, I love you, I love you, I love you. I love you.

The sun belongs to Eliott because the sun loves him.

Eliott is a king.

___

He wakes, and it’s dark.

 _Dark_ , dark.

A darkness of no moon, a darkness the streetlights have to bend around rather than break, it’s so thick.

It must be late, or early. He can hear rain outside.

It’s dark, damp, and cold, and Eliott can feel the touch of grass on his back fading, the rose petal lips to his brow, his neck, and his chest fluttering away on the frigid wind, blown down to a Parisian gutter with a January rain.

He wishes he was still asleep. He tries to squeeze his eyes shut, to return to this dream that was so perfect, it was as though someone, some being with the power to spin dreams out of quiet longing, built a place out of softness and warmth and the scent of honeysuckle and the touch of a boy’s lips and said, _Here, Eliott Demaury, here is the place you can rest your heavy heart. Here is the place you can find peace._

The thing about a dream like that is, it always has to end. And when it does, it aches.

He lies there and thinks about the meadow that continues to slip further and further away from him. Maybe he should draw it before he forgets it completely, the way the sun hit his hair. Mix colours until he can discover a blue that matches his eyes.

He lies there and thinks about capturing a dream into a folded A4 and tucking it away under his pillow.

But then, there’s something shifting, a rustle at his back and there’s a hand, a hand that’s like a regular hand, but not at all like a regular hand because it’s reaching out for Eliott, it’s touching light fingertips to his shoulder, dancing along the skin until they find his chest. The hand presses flat against his heart and there’s a body attached to that hand, shifting closer on the mattress, warm breath on the nape of Eliott’s neck, a gentle murmur, “Baby.”

Eliott’s breath hitches, a quiet, fluttering thing like a baby bird released from a cage because he had forgotten. Maybe he was too caught in the dregs of the dream or maybe he was still stuck somewhere between asleep and awake because he had forgotten.

Whoever built Eliott’s dream must have taken pity on him, must have sighed sadly and said, _No, no, here. We’ll make it real for you. We’ll make all of this real._ This. Lucas holding him in his bed, hands warm on Eliott’s skin, breath sweet in his hair, calling him _baby_ like he loves him. Like Lucas loves Eliott and belongs to him. Like they belong together.

_Here is the place you can rest your heavy heart._

Lucas’ fingers gently stroke across his chest.

Eliott feels a bit like crying, so he lets himself, hot, thin tears that trickle down his nose and run diagonally across his cheeks. He reaches up to touch Lucas’ hand, gripping onto his fingers in a way that must be too tight because it makes Lucas hum, makes him shift against Eliott’s back and whisper, “Sweetheart? Are you okay?”

Eliott nods. He ducks his head to kiss Lucas’ hand.

Lucas lets out a sigh. He rubs his nose against Eliott’s neck, presses a feather-light kiss to the knob at the top of his spine. “I love you.”

Eliott blinks. His tears are still drying on his face, his pyjama pants are low on his hips, his left foot itches, his room is too cold—details too normal, too Earth-bound for this to be anything but real. Not a dream. Real.

He feels himself smile. _I love you too._

He wakes again, later, to thick, gloomy clouds looming in through his window and wind rattling the glass, gnashing its teeth in anticipation of another storm.

Eliott groans, rolling over and reaching out a hand that falls through empty air to the mattress, the sheet still warm under his touch. He follows the path of his hand to Lucas’ side of the bed, rolling into Lucas’ pillow and sighing, burying his nose in the soft cotton that smells like Lucas’ drugstore shampoo.

He thinks he could stay like this all day; wrapped in sheets that smell like Lucas, that smell like them together, his face buried in a pillow, the wide world no more than a whisper at his back. He knows he could because he’s done it, watched the hours pass by with only one eye open, as the storm of his thoughts raged and raged and raged. It happened when he broke up with Lucas. He shut himself away from everyone and everything and closed his curtains tightly and pulled the blanket tightly over his head and let himself fester in self-loathing and shame.

 _Why did I think it was going to be different this time?_ He asked himself and asked himself, and the only answer that would ever come was a small, tentative, _Because it’s him. Because you’re in love with him._

Eliott would lie there and think about the first time he met Lucas, when he saw him across a crowded room and couldn’t take his eyes off of him, for fear he would disappear like a mirage. He would think about Lucas’ ex, that shitbag rugby player who spoke to Lucas so cruelly, so callously, that Eliott wanted to turn him around and hit him, and Eliott never wanted hit anyone. Ever. He would think about Lucas, staring up at Eliott with those mesmerizing eyes, pools of deep blue-black in the pink neon light of Celine’s hallway, and he would think about himself, taking a hit from a shoddily-rolled joint and telling him, _I can’t imagine having you and letting you go_.

But he did. Because he was more worried about self-preservation than holding onto Lucas. Because he never deserved Lucas, anyway. He was always on limited time with him, and that’s why he was always greedy, stealing gasps of his breath and mapping out the expanse of his skin and memorizing the sound of his laugh and copying his face down into his sketchbook and reassuring Lucas when he had his own doubts, doing anything he could to keep him around. Because sooner or later, Lucas would learn the truth about him, and every day, hate for Eliott would grow in Lucas like a weed, until it choked the life out everything else inside of him. Eliott had known that before, with Marianne. He’d seen it coming, with Lucille. That was Eliott, draining someone dry until they had to dig him out of their life.

He never expected to feel like he did, like in the process of cutting Lucas free he lost a part of himself. He never expected the pain of regret to hurt so much. He never expected that writing a letter, trying to find a place where he could carve out his love and tightly seal it away, would change everything.

He never expected Lucas to come back, and to fight for him.

It was clumsy, their reunion. Imperfect and awkward and difficult, with misunderstandings and arguments and nights where Eliott would lie awake terrified that Lucas would leave again. But then there were nights where they stayed up all night talking, hours and hours of laughing together over nothing, a dinner with Eliott’s parents that ended with his mom squeezing Lucas tightly in her arms, pressing a kiss to the top of his head with watery eyes.

And then there’s now, there’s the gloomy morning and the empty half of the bed, but there’s the sound of the bedroom door opening, bare feet sliding over worn hardwood, and Eliott smiles into Lucas’ pillow but he doesn’t raise his head. He waits.

The bare feet approach to the bed, and something is placed down—a plate maybe, a rap of porcelain against the wood, and then the mattress is dipping, skin is sliding over the sheets and there’s a finger that touches the highest knob of Eliott’s spine, follows the path all the way down to his tailbone. The hand smoothes back up, and the weight on the mattress sinks closer.

“Eliott.”

Eliott shuts his eyes more tightly.

“Eliott.” The hand on his back drifts to his hair, smoothing it away from his ear so rose petal lips can brush against it and whisper, “Wake up, my love.”

The lips press a kiss to the shell of his ear, then drift down to his neck, dropping gentle kisses against the skin and Eliott can’t stop the dreamy sigh that escapes him, so he gives up the act, opening his eyes and turning his head.

“Hi,” he says.

Lucas smiles. He looks tired, his eyelids drooping and his cheeks puffy. He’s wearing one of Eliott’s sweatshirts, the grey one that he has to roll at the cuffs, with a pair of Eliott’s boxers. He looks a bit like a mess. He looks beautiful.

It’s always been intimate to Eliott, to see what someone looks like first thing in the morning, before they begin to add on the layers that create the self they present to the world. In the morning, Lucas tends to be quiet, speaking lowly and moving slowly, a direct contrast to the Lucas that exists outside of Eliott’s room: loud and chaotic, angry and opinionated and funny. Eliott loves that Lucas more than anything, but he has a soft spot for this Lucas, with his sweet, sleepy face and gentle touches.

“I made toast,” Lucas tells him, carding a hand through his hair. “But you’re out of coffee.” He wrinkles his nose. “Again.”

Eliott laughs. “I’m sorry. I keep forgetting to buy it.”

“I know,” Lucas sighs, but he’s still smiling, still gently stroking Eliott’s hair. There’s a moment before he asks, “How are you feeling?”

Eliott, who had been halfway to falling back asleep under Lucas’ ministrations, blinks awake again. “I’m okay.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Eliott frowns. “Why?” He wonders if he seems off to Lucas in some way, if the melancholic sky has painted itself across his face in its palette of dark and light greys.

“No, no reason.” Lucas leans off of the mattress and returns with the plate of toast. “I was just asking.”

“Is that going to be a thing now?” Eliott says at length. It’s something he’s heard before, that _How are you feeling?_ from faces pinched in bland concern, eyes hollow underneath artfully furrowed brows. He’s heard it before, and he’s never liked how it made him feel. Like he was someone to be pitied. “You asking me if I’m okay?”

Lucas shakes his head. “No, I was just…” He cuts himself off, biting down on a piece of toast. “Forget it,” he says around his mouthful.

There’s something there, something complicated simmering under his expression that makes Eliott sit up and reach out. Because he knows, or at least he’s trying to know, that with Lucas it isn’t pity that he feels. It’s another thing entirely.

(Love. It’s love.)

“Lucas.” He says softly. He smoothes a hand over Lucas’ knee, fingers curling around his thigh. “Lucas.”

When Eliott was ending things with him, he couldn’t say Lucas’ name. It was too painful, too difficult and too revealing, because from the very first time he said it, in the bathroom on the second floor Eliott has never known a way to say Lucas’ name that didn’t sound like, _You. You utter miracle._

He could barely say it, when they were apart. Now, he says it constantly. Can’t stop saying it. _Lucas, Lucas, Lucas…_

“Lucas. What are you not saying?”

Lucas swallows, his eyes fixed on a spot in the middle of Eliott’s chest. “I don’t…” He shrugs, his eyes flicking up to Eliott’s own, then dropping down again. “I’m trying to find a balance.”

Eliott cocks his head. He smoothes his thumb down the skin of Lucas’ thigh. “A balance for what?”

“I know you don’t like it when people check in with you.” Lucas says slowly, like he’s choosing his words carefully. “You don’t like to feel…babied. Looked after.”

It’s both true and not true. Eliott doesn’t like to feel coddled, sure. He doesn’t want to feel like someone’s responsibility, but. But. Being looked after, in a way. Feeling safe and loved. Well, Eliott doesn’t think he minds that. Not if it’s with Lucas.

Only, he doesn’t have the vocabulary to express this in the moment, to make sense of his thoughts, so he just nods, continues stroking Lucas’ skin with his thumb.

“And I don’t want to make you feel like that, but I do want to know how you’re feeling. Because I care about you. Because I want you to feel good with me, and I want you to feel like you can tell me anything. You can tell me when you’re happy, when you’re pissed off, when you’re tired, when you’re sad. I want you to be able to tell me these things and know that none of it will scare me off or make me upset. That’s what I’m trying to say when I ask you if you’re okay, but I—” Lucas’ voice trails off, his speech losing steam. He shrugs again. “I don’t know. I mean, I don’t want you to feel pressured to tell me anything, I just want you to…know you can. You can trust me.” He finishes lamely. He takes another bite of his toast, his cheeks coloured a pale pink that makes them look like rose petals in the spring.

Eliott stares at him. Stops moving, stops even breathing and just _stares_ at him.

“I trust you,” he finally says, barely more than a whisper.

“You didn’t.” Lucas says, just as quietly, and Eliott nearly flinches. “But that’s okay.” He tilts his head up, locking his eyes with Eliott’s. His free hand smoothes across Eliott’s bare shoulder, cupping the side of his neck. “I don’t blame you for that. We were new and there was a lot we hadn’t talked about, but I would…” He licks his lips, taking a breath. “I would be lying if I said I wasn’t scared that what happened might happen again. That we won’t be able to talk to each other and we’ll break apart.”

It hurts still, to think about the break up, like pulling stitches out of a wound one at a time. It hurts because Eliott knows it was his fault. He knows he contradicted himself and overreacted and, most damning of all, broke Lucas’ heart. He knows he’s lucky, that he has meddling friends and a boyfriend with a lion’s heart and the favour of the universe on his side. He knows that he could have wound up living with regret for a long time.

He tilts his chin down, turning his face into Lucas’ palm to he can press his lips to his skin. “I’m scared too,” he murmurs. “I’m scared to lose you, but I’m scared to try and hold onto you.”

“I understand,” Lucas says, and Eliott is reminded of the rugby player, of his sneer and of his words that lashed like a whip. Eliott is reminded of other boys Lucas has told him about, ones who left him without a word, ones who let him believe he couldn’t be loved.

Just like there are people who let Eliott believe he couldn’t be loved.

“Fuck,” Eliott sighs, and he lets Lucas’ hand drop to his lap, tilting his head back to the ceiling, blinking at the water stain in the corner that looks a bit like a lopsided heart, or a bit like the universe, and it makes Eliott wonder. “Do you think the universe knew what it was doing, when it pushed us together?”

Lucas frowns. “Of course it did.” He sweeps his hand out to the side, still holding onto the slice of toast. “I think it saw the two of us and thought, ‘If they get it right, then they could be really good together.’”

Eliott feels his lips twitch up at the corners. “ _If_ we get it right.”

“You don’t think we are?”

Eliott thinks about it, thinks about waking up with Lucas pressed to his back, thinks about Lucas asking him _How are you feeling?_ and meaning something far more, thinks about himself, telling Lucas how he’s feeling and meaning it, and he thinks about them together, searching for safe places to put their hearts.

“Yeah, maybe we are,” he says. Then he leans forward, and tears the last bite of toast from Lucas’ hand with his teeth.

Lucas lets out an indignant yelp, smacking Eliott across the shoulder, but he’s laughing, and as he reaches out to brush a crumb away from the corner of his mouth, he says, “Let’s get dressed.”

Eliott raises an eyebrow.

“You’re going to a buy me coffee.”

Eliott agrees to pay, which turns out to be a mistake because Lucas chooses an overpriced, disgustingly hip café in the next neighbourhood over. Eliott is supposed to loathe the place on principle, because they’re direct competition to Fleurs Sauvages, and because they charge six euros for a latte, but he secretly loves it a little bit, because they play excellent music and they have a greenhouse attached to the café where they grow flowers and herbs.

The sky is even more foreboding once they’re outside, the cloud cover thick and expansive. Eliott had spent a good ten minutes trying to find an umbrella in the apartment before it occurred to him that they probably didn’t even own one, so he and Lucas have their hoods drawn up as they make their way there, bumping elbows and trying to trip each other, laughing whenever one of them succeeds.

The café is bursting with people when they get inside, the usual brunch crowd doubled by tourists escaping the imminent rain. It’s warm, humid and stifling and as Eliott begins to take his jacket off, he feels a buzz in his pocket.

It’s an email from his supervisor, Kioni.

He takes a deep breath before he reads it, and then he does it quickly, eyes dancing over the pleasant _Hello Eliott_ to the _hope you had a wonderful holiday_ to _final term_ to _future plans_ and _MFA applications due by the 20th_ and then _meet to discuss your thesis schedule so you can stay on track to graduate in June._

He reads it again, thumb hovering over the reply button. It’s nothing he didn’t already know: he’s behind on his thesis, hasn’t even begun any master’s applications, and he’s graduating. In June.

Eliott knew all of this, but it’s another thing entirely to see it written out so plainly as something that’s going to happen to him, something that’s already happening, rather than something he could file away to think about later because he had time. He had time, and he still has it, but it’s fleeting, a hourglass he can see running down grain by grain.

“Eliott!”

He snaps his head up, and Lucas is waving him over, already further up in the queue. Eliott pockets his phone, but it feels heavy there, the weight of the unanswered email, the vast, daunting question of the future resting like a stone.

But Lucas is waving him over, and he looks excited, bouncing on his toes, smiling widely, so Eliott ignores the dirty looks sent his way for cutting in line and goes to him, a matching smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Eli, look!” Lucas says when he’s close enough, pointing to a large window on the other side of the café, where patrons can peer into the greenhouse and admire whatever’s growing in there at the time.

Today, there are sunflowers. In Paris, which seems nearly impossible with the amount of rain and gloom that comes in winter.

“I saw these the last time I came here with Daphy,” Lucas is telling him, running his hand down Eliott’s arm. “I was hoping they were still here so you could see them.”

The sunflowers are beautiful, tall and bold and bright, and just looking at them feels like summertime. There’s an echo of the warm sun on his shoulders, soft grass under his feet.

The thing is that sunflowers are Eliott’s favourite flower, and he told Lucas that once, last summer when they were lying under a tree together, Lucas’ head pillowed in Eliott’s lap. He mentioned it in passing, that he got sunflowers from his mom on his birthday, which she does every year because they’re his favourite.

And now he’s here. The first week of January, hiding out from rain, and Lucas wants to show him summertime again. Lucas, who’s currently beaming up at Eliott like he’s sunshine itself.

In that moment, Eliott’s love for Lucas is such a living, breathing thing inside of him that he feels as though it could break free from him entirely, that it could banish the grey clouds from the sky and draw light to the ground again.

He slides an arm around Lucas’ waist and draws him close, kissing him softly, just a gentle press, then he's tilting his head to deepen it, his arm tightening around his waist. Lucas makes a sound of approval against his lips, and the hand on Eliott’s arm slides up to the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair, tugging a little as Eliott breaks away to kiss across Lucas’ cheek, whispering into his skin, _I love you._

When he pulls away, Lucas’ cheeks are rose petal pink and he’s biting down on his lip like he wants to be kissed again, and Eliott wants to, he’s going to, but the line has moved without them noticing, and the woman at the counter is waving them over with a knowing grin.

So Eliott settles for pressing a kiss to Lucas’ hair, and using his hand on the small of his back to push him towards the counter.

They both decide on expensive, seasonal lattes to treat themselves, but the woman gives them a discount because, “It’s a thank you for bringing such beautiful love in here today. And anyway I’m the owner, and I do what I want.”

They squeeze into the end of a communal table and sip their fancy drinks, falling into conversation with a group of girl who are visiting from Canada, staying in Paris before making their way up to Switzerland.

One of the girls speaks to them in French, but it’s different than theirs, slow and heavily accented and filled with anglicisms that make Lucas snort with laughter.

“Where did you two meet?” The girl asks them, leaning forward onto her elbows and wiggling her eyebrows.

“At a party,” Lucas laughs, rolling his eyes. “As cliche as it gets.”

Eliott pouts. “It wasn’t cliche.”

“Babe, yes it was. We disappeared to go smoke a joint together, then made out in the bathroom. Name me something more cliche.”

Eliott shrugs. “We could have met at school, and have been forced to be partners on a project. Or we could have been in two different trains, and we lock eyes for only a second through the windows.”

Lucas is shaking his head at him, poking his tongue in his cheek like he’s trying not to smile.

“We could have met in a coffee shop,” Eliott goes on, waving a hand towards the counter. “Where one of us keeps giving the other free drinks, or has their order memorized, or something. Or we could have met in a hotel, and there’s a mix-up with the bookings so we have to share a room.”

Lucas does laugh at that one, tilting his head back, nose scrunching up, and it feels like a victory.

“We could have met in a bookstore. Or in a cinema. Or…” Eliott bobs his head from side to side, thinks of all the mundane places that could be made special by meeting Lucas. “In a supermarket.”

“Alright, we get it,” Lucas says, pushing his face away with an open palm. Eliott fights the urge to bite at the heel of his hand, to press his lips to his palm, to kiss down his wrist to the place where the rolled cuff of Eliott’s sweatshirt falls.

“So…” The girl leans forward, resting a hand flat on the table, startling Eliott. For a second, he’d forgotten she was there. “You’re saying that no matter what, you two would always have met? Somewhere? Somehow?”

Lucas and Eliott’s eyes lock together.

“Yeah,” Eliott says, voice muffled by Lucas’ hand. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

Lucas makes Eliott pose in front of the sunflowers before they leave, taking a picture on his phone and posting it to Instagram, captioning it: **_sunflowers will always find a sun to lean towards_** _._

Immediately, Celine comments on it: **_disgusting_**

Then, Idriss: **_@celeebourget why do you never take cute pics of me like this_**

By the time they leave the café, it’s raining: the heavy, torrential downpour that the gargoyle clouds have been threatening all morning. Lucas hangs by the doorway, pouting and pulling his hood up. Eliott looks out into the rain and looks back at him and asks, “You’re not afraid of a little rain, are you?”

Lucas makes a face at him, but he follows when Eliott links their fingers together and tugs him out into the rain, giggling when it hits his head, soaking his hair in seconds and trickling down into his eyes. Lucas sputters from the water, but he’s laughing too, and Eliott twirls him in a circle, grabs onto his other hand and they dance outside of the café, stepping into puddles and stumbling on wet cobblestones, and all the while they laugh.

Lucas rises up onto his toes to kiss him, giggling into Eliott’s mouth and Eliott drops his hands so he can cup his cheeks, fingers sliding against cool, wet skin. They kiss and it tastes like rainwater, tastes like their fancy coffees, tastes like the cherry lip balm that Eliott gave Lucas as a joke.

They kiss and kiss and kiss under the freezing January rain and Eliott murmurs, _Lucas_ , against his lips and Lucas hums and Eliott says it again. _Lucas. Lucas._

_You. You utter miracle._

_Lucas — I_

Lucas Lallemant is daydreaming.

It’s a new favourite of his, one that was initially just for late at night, when he was alone in bed and struggling to fall asleep, but now that classes have started again, has been brought into the daylight. His daydreams used to feature a nameless, faceless boy, or a boy with a face like whichever celebrity he happened to be crushing on at the time. They would be vague, hazy constructions, seeking a feeling more than a narrative, transporting Lucas from a poorly-ventilated lab to a sun-warmed bed, or a beach in Nice.

But ever since that first night they spent together in his apartment, his daydreams have changed.

Now, there’s only one face he sees, one boy with a name and tattoos and fluffy hair and a smile like sunshine. He lets himself drift off, thinking about him while his professor goes on about the semester ahead of them, their syllabus projected onto the screen, and then he slips into another world.

He’s standing in a kitchen, watching a coffee pot gurgle away, and there’s early-morning sunlight stretching lazily across the tile floor, warming it under Lucas’ toes. There are two mugs on the counter, both hand-painted, but one far neater than the other. There’s something soft brushing against his leg, and he glances down to see a small black kitten blinking at him with round green eyes. He smiles and reaches down to scratch its head, and the cat mewls happily under his attention, before bounding out of the kitchen. The coffee pot keeps gurgling and Lucas’ toes curl against the tile and he lets the moment linger, lets it stretch itself out before it gets to the best part, when a pair of arms wrap around his waist, doubling over his stomach and tugging him back into a solid, warm body, and there’s a yawn against his hair and a kiss to his ear, and Eliott says very, very, softly, _Good morning baby._

Lucas says _Good morning_ , and he dips his head back for a kiss that Eliott was already leaning down to give him.

 _Did you feed Chelou,_ Eliott is asking him and Lucas nods, turning in Eliott’s arms so he can lean into his shoulder. He slips his hands underneath Eliott’s shirt to pet the skin of his back, drags his fingernails up to his shoulder blades and back down again.

 _I don’t want to go anywhere today_ , Lucas says, turning his head so he can press his lips to Eliott’s neck.

Eliott laughs. _No? But it’s so nice outside._

 _We can go outside later_ , Lucas concedes. _But right now, I don’t want to go anywhere except back to bed._

 _Well_ , Eliott says, _that’s what Saturdays are for, aren’t they?_

They take their coffee back to their bedroom but they forget about it, leaving the mugs to cool on their bedside tables while Lucas wraps his arms around Eliott’s neck and pulls him down, kissing him until he can barely breathe, then kissing him again, slow and lazy because they have all the time in the world, because it’s Saturday and they don’t have assignments, they don’t have part-time jobs, they don’t have anywhere to be and they don’t have to worry about getting home, because they are home. Because in this daydream, the bed they’re lying on is theirs. The apartment they’re in is theirs. The kitten playing with a toilet paper roll on the floor is theirs.

Lucas rolls them over so he can sit back on Eliott’s lap, dragging his hands down his torso (now inexplicably naked, but Lucas isn’t worried about the logistics of it) fingers dancing in the divots of his abs.

 _Hey_ , Eliott says and Lucas raises an eyebrow at him. _What are you thinking?_

Lucas lifts a shoulder. _Nothing. I’m just really happy._

Eliott smiles. He grips onto Lucas’ hips and sits up, abs scrunching under Lucas’ hands. _Good_ , he says warmly, and he kisses him, the stubble on his chin scratching Lucas’ skin but he likes it, drops his mouth open to let out a gasp. _I’m happy too,_ Eliott says, kissing his down Lucas’ jaw to his neck. _I love you so much. Lucas._ His hands make a slow, indulgent slide up Lucas’ back. _Baby. I love you. I love you. I love you._

He’s not sure how much of it is Eliott saying it and how much is the echo inside his head but he says it back, threading his fingers through Eliott’s hair. _I love you too._ Then he uses his grip to tug Eliott into another kiss, and as they tumble back into the sheets, the morning sun makes itself comfortable, curls up on a corner of their bed to take a nap because they have all the time in the universe together, to kiss and to touch and to laugh into each other’s mouths.

They’re home.

___

Two fingers snap in front of his face. Bright red nail polish and silver rings.

He nearly falls off his chair.

“ _Hellooooo_ , this is the mortal plane paging Lucas Lallemant in whatever fantastical universe he’s happened to slip into.”

“Fuck off,” Lucas grumbles, feeling his cheeks warm. He scrubs his hands over his face to mask it.

“I was just worried,” Celine says casually, “because it looked like you were deep in the subconscious. Were you having kinky fantasies about your boyfriend or what?”

Lucas throws an eraser at her and she yelps. “Do you have to say that so loudly?” He hisses, eyes darting around the lab, to where everyone else seems to be watching their professor with half-hearted interest. Some of them glance over at the sound, then glance away when they see it’s just Celine and Lucas. Only Imane, on the other side of Lucas, narrows her eyes knowingly at them.

“And I wasn’t. I definitely wasn’t doing that.” Lucas mutters. If anything his face is burning even more, and part of that is knowing that it would be a lot more embarrassing if Celine found out that Lucas was actually daydreaming about sharing an apartment with his boyfriend. He can barely admit it to himself, how since he and Eliott got back together, domesticity stars in his daydreams far more than sex does.

He knows Eliott is graduating in June, but he doesn’t consciously let himself think beyond that, to where Eliott may be going, or what he’ll do. They haven’t talked about it.

It’s difficult for Lucas, who has had his life planned out since he was fourteen, finishing his degree then going to medical school, but now there are questions that he doesn’t know the answer to, variables cropping up in his life that he can’t begin to examine: like how the closer he gets to medical school, the more it seems like an obligation rather than a desire, how lately he’s been pouring over marine biology books at work, slamming them closed whenever his coworkers call his name.

He doesn’t let himself linger any of this. What he does do is let himself slip into fantasies where they have an apartment together with big windows, a comfortable bed, and air conditioning. He thinks about waking up next to Eliott every day. He thinks about living together. Building a home together.

The idea makes him light-headed.

And then he’ll push it away, leave it for a few days until he can’t stand it anymore, and he’ll open it back up. Just to take a look. Just to let himself think that this is something he can have with Eliott. Maybe. Possibly. Someday.

Because for now, well. Everything is still so tentative between them. As beautiful as it is fragile, with the wounds that are still healing, and the scars they keep poking and prodding at. They talk about abandonment and bipolarity. The talk about breaking and repairing. They talk about talking and listening. They talk about trust all the time, about how they need to learn to trust each other, to trust themselves, and Lucas wishes they were already there, wishes they didn’t have to argue and go quiet and take time for themselves. He wishes they didn’t have to put in the work, that they could just close their eyes, count to three, and when they open them, they’ve both shaken off the ghosts of the past like dust from their coats.

Of course, nothing is ever that easy, and while Lucas knows that they love each other, and knows that’s the most important thing, he also knows it’s not the only thing.

“It’s okay if you were.” Celine says. She pats his hand condescendingly. “Don’t be embarrassed. Eliott is a top-tier hottie. It’s entirely understandable that you would—”

Lucas drops his head to his laptop, landing on the space bar. “Please stop talking.”

“I mean, sometimes when I’m at work, I’ll start thinking about this thing Idriss does with his—”

“Do you two have an issue with the syllabus?” A voice calls out. Both of their heads snap up to the professor, watching them with her hands planted on her hips and an amused smile tugging at her lips. “You seem to be discussing something really important there.”

“I have a question about the group reports,” Celine says smoothly. “It says here we submit only for three weeks? Are those weeks of our choosing or will you be assigning the topics?”

The professor raises a dubious eyebrow, but launches into an explanation nonetheless, and Celine smiles primly, taking a sip from her coffee.

“I hate you,” Lucas tells her solemnly.

“No you don’t.”

“Can you guys _please_ shut up?” Imane hisses.

They go for lunch together at a cheap deli a block away from campus, ordering overstuffed sandwiches on thick slices of bread and steaming cups of tar-black coffee. They cram themselves into a small round table next to the window, huddling into their coats whenever the door opens and a gust of cold air follows another customer inside.

They talk about their courses, comparing electives and workloads and complaining about professors who already look like they're going to be hard-asses.

Imane rolls her eyes. “You're just sore because she called you out in front of the entire class.”

Lucas sends her a sour look over the top of his sandwich.

“Don’t be so hard on him,” Celine sighs, reaching out to ruffle his hair. “It’s not his fault that he can’t stop thinking about six-foot-something pretty-boy artists.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Imane says, leaning forward with a glint in her eyes that Lucas doesn't like at all. “Can’t focus on biology, can you?”

“He only wants to focus on Eliott’s biology,” Celine whispers, and both of them start cackling, loudly enough that the moustached man at the counter shakes his head at them, smiling.

Lucas feels his mouth twitch. “Fuck off.” Out of the corner of his eye, he sees his phone light up with a text from Eliott and he turns it over, his face burning. “Well, okay,” he says tartly, “how about you two, then?” He narrows his eyes at Celine. “I hear Idriss barely comes home anymore.”

“Oh, hell no,” Imane sits back in her chair with her hands held out, palms flat. “No. Nope. I don’t want to know about that.”

Celine smirks into her coffee.

“That face.” Imane points at her. “Don’t make that face.”

“Well, hold on!” Celine laughs, waving her cup in the air, the coffee inside sloshing dangerously high on the sides. “How’s darling Sofiane doing, _hmmmm_? How are his biceps?”

Imane crosses her arms over her chest. She stares at them across the table as though she’s a police officer, and Celine and Lucas are the troubled miscreants who have been brought before her on petty vandalism charges.

But then there’s a crack in the facade. The smallest smile.

“His biceps,” she says, very slowly, “are _spectacular_.”

Lucas and Celine burst into a round of incomprehensible cat-calls, and the moustached man behind the counter is staring at them like he’s seconds away from kicking them out or asking to join them, but they’re all laughing now, doubling over in their seats and spilling coffee everywhere.

It occurs to Lucas, as he mops up a spill with a pile of paper napkins, that he’s happy. He’s really fucking happy, sitting there with the two of them, laughing about the fact that he’s in love, that they’re in love, that somehow, they’ve all managed to find places to put down their hearts. And it’s funny, because Lucas is sure you couldn’t find a group of people who like to talk shit about love and relationships more, but there they are, three science students with their hearts sewn into their sleeves, foolish and feeling and bleeding out mortifying happiness onto the small, round table.

“I know,” Celine laments, twirling a thick strand of hair around her finger. “We’ve gone to the dark side.”

Imane drops her chin into her hand. “I never…” She hums, eyes drifting over to the window, to the clusters of students passing by with their scarves wrapped up over their noses, to the women in stylish coats walking dogs sporting equally stylish coats, and to all of the couples, holding hands and wrapping their arms around each other, laughing loudly and walking in silence. Her eyes stay fixed to two girls stopping to kiss in the middle of the sidewalk, both of them smiling into it. “I never really thought it would happen for me, you know?”

Celine tilts her head, watching her. “Getting into a relationship?”

“No. I always figured that would happen eventually. I mean finding a person like that.” The two girls are walking away, their heads bent closely together and their hands still tightly entwined. Imane drifts her gaze back to them, eyes soft, and she looks beautiful like that, bathed in the cold January sunlight, her face more open than Lucas has ever seen it. “A person who I’m so in synch with. It’s so weird sometimes, how easily he understands me.”

Celine nods. “You’re good for each other,” she says.

“Well, we weren’t always.” Imane trails her fingers through a drop of coffee they missed in their clean up, dragging it in a circle on the table. “At the beginning it was hard. Lucas, you were there, you remember.”

Lucas does remember. He remembers when Imane was still telling everyone she didn’t like Sofiane. In fact, could barely stand him. He remembers when Manon mentioned that she was interested in him, and Imane told her to go for it, that she didn’t care. He remembers when he found Imane in the hallway one day, watching the girls from a distance with a look on her face like she would rather be anywhere else, and Lucas took her by the arm and said, _Come on, let’s go._ He remembers when Imane told him about everything: the micro-aggressions from Ingrid, the dismissal from the other girls, the mistakes she made, the fight with Sofiane, the fight with her brother. He remembers listening to her and thinking that he understands, because when he was seeing Michel, he was lying to the guys, ditching them constantly, lashing out whenever they tried to talk to him. He remembers pulling Imane to a hug and saying, _I’m so sorry, Imane. But you have to be honest with them, and with yourself._

“You were going through a lot,” he says now, meeting her eyes over their empty plates and piles of coffee-soiled napkins.

“I was, but I was also scared, because I knew right away that he was someone who could be good for me. I knew right away that he was someone I could love really, really easily.”

Lucas’ phone buzzes again, and he doesn’t look at it, but he’s thinking about sitting at Imane’s kitchen table, fighting the urge to kiss Eliott’s cheek and thinking, _How is it possible I like you this much?_ He thinks about how he didn’t trust Eliott, didn’t trust them together because it was too good. Too perfect for Lucas, who never got to keep anything so sweet for himself. There had to be something wrong, something that would make them break. And they did break, but the only thing that was wrong was that both of them were convinced they didn’t deserve the very thing they had.

“Anyway,” Imane sighs, sitting back in the chair, smoothing a hand over her headscarf, “we’ve figured it out now, but only after I let myself believe that this is something I can have.” She shakes her head slowly. “Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I had let him go, if I had given up, and I know I would have moved on, would have found someone knew, but…I don’t know if I would have been this happy. I honestly don’t.” She frowns at Celine and Lucas. “You can’t ever tell him I said that.”

Celine laughs, but it’s watery. She wipes under her eyes with the tip of a finger, avoiding the sharp wing of her eyeliner. “Fucking hell, Imane,” she says, sniffing. “Don’t make me cry after I’ve eaten a ham sandwich.”

Imane giggles, patting her on the shoulder. “Sorry. I know, I’m almost as bad as Lucas now.”

Lucas, who was basking in the beautiful vulnerability of the moment, buoyed by his love fo this friends, now blinks, then frowns. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know,” Imane flaps a hand at him, “you and Eliott and how you two…are.”

“What do you mean 'how we are'? Eliott and I are just—”

“Oh, no. No!” Celine slams a hand down on the table. “Don't you dare start talking about Eliott or I will actually start crying. You two and your soulmates bullshit I swear to _god_.”

Lucas opens his mouth to say something, what he doesn’t know, ideally something cutting and snarky, but he can’t formulate a proper sentence because his brain is stuck on the word like a flower it keeps having to turn back to smell, to touch its petals. _Soulmates._

“Soulmates don’t exist.” He says without thinking, voice strained, and the look Celine sends him is borderline pitying.

“Yeah, well, I thought love wasn’t supposed to either, but here we fucking are.”

It stays with Lucas for the rest of the day, when he parts ways with Imane and Celine, when he checks his phone and reads the texts Eliott sent him, one in response to something Lucas said earlier, one that’s a link to a trailer for a film that Eliott says they **_have to see!!!!!_** He thinks about it when they go the cinema that night, when Eliott tucks his head into his shoulder and complains when Lucas eats all of the popcorn, when Lucas says that the movie was _just okay_ and Eliott is so offended because _it was genius, are you kidding me?_ He thinks about it when they walk home, holding hands even though it’s awkward since they’re both wearing mittens. He thinks about it as they fall asleep in Eliott’s bed, Eliott’s head pillowed on Lucas’ chest, his arm wrapped around his waist. He thinks about the word as he trails his fingers across Eliott’s back, tracing its letters into his skin slowly, carefully, trying to tell Eliott without really telling him.

_Those don’t exist._

_Do they?_

_Eliott — II_

The inside of Kioni’s office is organized chaos. There are canvases propped up in the corners, sculptures being used as paperweights, an overfilled bookcase with shelves bowing under the weight of heavy texts. There’s a bottle of wine on the windowsill, a tin filled with paintbrushes on the floor, and a record player on a small stand next to a folded easel. It looks like the sort of place an artist should inhabit, cluttered but tidy at the same time. Eccentric and interesting and filled with such a vibrant creative energy that usually, it makes Eliott feel rejuvenated whenever he enters it, as though he could turn back around and churn out canvas after canvas of pure genius.

But today, as he sinks into the well-worn leather chair across from her desk, he feels lost.

“So,” Kioni says, peering at Eliott from behind her thick red glasses, “tell me what’s going on.”

Eliott picks at skin around his thumbnail. “Well, uh. I’m not…” He sighs, planting his hands on his thighs. “Honestly, I don’t know about any of my practical work. Every time I think I have it, I just…lose it. I keep trying but nothing feels useable.” He winces as he says it, but Kioni just nods, like this is what she expected to hear.

“You’re not the only one,” she says easily, folding her hands on the desk. “For some, the research is the easy part. The concept is the easy part. It’s the carrying out of your vision, in a way that feels true to you, that becomes difficult.”

Eliott just nods.

“Your outline was good,” she continues, gesturing down to an open folder on her desk, where Eliott can see the title “The Mysteries of the Modern World,” and his outline underneath it, marked up in red ink. “It shows a lot of promise.” She smoothes a hand over the page. “I have to say, I was surprised to see such a topic coming from you, but I’m very interested to see where you take it.”

“But I…” Eliott knows that Kioni is never one to hold back her opinion, that if she’s saying she likes the idea she genuinely likes it, but he can’t help asking, “What if I’m not on the right track, though? If I can’t express it into the canvas.”

Kioni hums, tapping a finger against her chin. “Well, why did you decide to do this topic in the first place?”

Well.

When Eliott was a child, he was obsessed with folklore.

It was a product of a vivid imagination and a childhood decorated by old books from the library, ones with cracking spines and thick, stained pages, filled with drawings of creatures with huge, hollow eyes and forked wings. At first the books haunted his dreams, then they inspired him to begin drawing on his own, to try and copy some of his favourite myths into a small sketchpad his dad got him for Christmas: dragons, horses, foxes, and fairies.

Then Eliott began to understand that there was something wrong with his brain, something that made him fall into depths of sorrow from peaks of happiness, and one day he took a thick black marker and drew a violent slash across a blank page and thought, _That’s what the inside of me feels like._

This is when Eliott discovered abstract expressionism.

For most of the time he’s been in the program, his work has been centred around his bipolarity, and deconstructing the stigmas around mental illness. It’s what’s gained him a reputation in the community, what makes the professors talk about _unique talent_ and _a distinct point of view_ when they shake his hand _._ But Eliott has never stopped thinking about the creatures from the books in the library, has never stopped looking for them, disappearing down shaded alleyways or hiding in the spires of the churches. He misses it, sometimes, the wonder he used to hold so tightly to his chest, the love of the idea that, everywhere he turned, there were secrets being hidden by the world, just waiting to be found by the right person. Sometimes he thinks about trying to get that same feeling of wonder back.

So, in the midst of struggling to find a topic for his thesis, and growing increasingly frustrated by his designation as _the bipolar artist_ , he got an idea.

The research paper centres around common folklore and myths still prevalent in France. It traces the origins of these stories, and examines why they have the ability to stay relevant for hundreds of years, unpacking the human desire to embrace the unknown, and to do exactly what he tries to do, to find wonder within the mundane. As he researched it, it felt right. It felt like a departure from his work that was organic, that was a sign of growth as an artist. But then he tried taking brush to canvas and there was nothing. Every line he slashed across the page was harsh and ugly. Every curve his brush traced was contrived. There was none of the ease he usually finds in his work, the colours and shapes that flow from his fingertips like water. It scares him, like there’s only one way he can practice his art, a way that’s rooted in self-loathing and pain. And Eliott doesn’t want to lose that part of his art, but he also doesn’t want to be defined by it.

He tries explaining this the best he can to Kioni. He can practically hear his therapist’s voice in his head, telling him to _go slow, take your time to express yourself. Everything you’re saying is your truth, Eliott._

“I’m just worried,” Eliott finishes, leaning his elbows onto his knees. “That there’s only one thing I can be.”

Kioni, who had been listening intently the whole time, her gaze soft yet focused, now shakes her head. “Eliott, that’s not true.”

“But—”

“What you are,” she says, gently but forcefully, resting a hand again on the open folder on her desk, “is a very talented artist with enormous potential. But more than that,” she taps a finger to the page, “you are a person with multitudes inside of you. To try and limit yourself to a label you think you fit to is wrong. Yes, it’s hard to go outside of the place you’ve been comfortably living in, but that’s what being an artist is really about. You’re constantly challenging the world around you, but you’re also constantly challenging yourself. Do you hear what I’m saying?”

“I do.” It feels a bit like the sun has appeared from behind a cloud, hearing the surety in Kioni’s voice, the passion and confidence. Eliott’s chest feels like it’s expanding.

“You can do this, Eliott. Just let yourself feel it.” She points at him, the late afternoon sunlight glinting off of a thick gold ring with a ruby set in the centre. “Don’t get caught up in perfectionism.”

“I know,” Eliott laughs sheepishly, running a hand through his hair. “I need to work on that.” It happens a lot, where he’ll be working with a canvas and suddenly he’ll get caught up in the details of the piece, how he doesn’t like one shade of green, or there’s a spot where blue blends into black that doesn’t feel right, and he’ll scrap the entire thing to start again.

“My advice,” Kioni says sagely, reaching for the chipped red mug on her desk, “is to try and trust yourself.”

“Yeah,” Eliott says on an exhale. The phrasing of it makes him think of Lucas, of their endless conversations about trusting themselves, and themselves together. He nods. “Yeah. I’m…I’m trying to do that.”

“Good.” Kioni murmurs, taking a sip from the mug.

Eliott claps his hands down on his thighs. “Alright, well, I should probably get to the studio, yeah? Thanks for—”

“Oh, no, no.” Kioni holds a hand out to him. Eliott freezes from where he was rising from his chair, hands gripping the arms. “You’re not getting away that easy, Demaury. Get back in that chair.” She adjusts her glasses on her nose, peering down at him. “We still have to talk about graduate school.”

Eliott drops back down into the leather, the cushion releasing a huff of air with the return of his weight, the dust in the room resettling around his body.

Kioni shakes her head, laughing. “You really thought you could escape this conversation, huh?”

“No, I just…” Eliott groans, dropping his head down to his hands. “I don’t know what to do.” He says quietly. “I don’t know what to tell you.”

There’s a beat of silence, where the weight of his own indecision and confusion presses down hard into his shoulders. He slumps further down.

“You know,” Kioni starts, “when we first met, in your freshman year, you told me you had your heart set on Beaux-Arts for your MFA.”

“I was. But now I’m not so sure.” It’s a classic art student dream, to sail into the doors of the École Nationale Supérieure des Beaux-Arts and emerge one of the greats of their generation, falling into the open arms of galleries across the city, forging a path that will be the envy of every one of their undergraduate classmates. It was Eliott’s dream when he was eighteen, but the closer the dream becomes, the more real it becomes, the less sure Eliott is about it. He isn’t sure he’s cut out for academia. He doesn’t like being in class, doesn’t like learning theory and history. He likes creating. He likes digging his hands into his paints, picking up a nub of charcoal and seeing what he can uncover with it.

Kioni hums thoughtfully. “Do you think you’d like to work instead?”

“I mean, I don’t—” Eliott cuts himself off from saying, _I don’t know._ It feels like a cop-out, even though it’s true, and even if he was certain about wanting to go into the workforce, he wouldn’t know where to look, what companies to make inquiries at, what hands to shake, what networking events to attend. Eliott can feel himself tensing just from the thought of it.

“Eliott.” He looks up at Kioni, sees the concern etched into her features. “You don’t have to be entirely certain right now. But yes, you do need to start making some decisions.” She leans back in her chair, folding her hands onto her lap. “I would encourage you to apply to Beaux-Arts in order to give yourself the option. I could certainly help you with the process so you could submit on time. But you know, you could also wait, if you’re really unsure. A year, two years, three years. You can apply anytime you feel ready. We’re never…tied to the decisions we make. Well,” she lifts a shoulder, “not these ones. What you decide to do the minute you get your degree isn’t a life sentence. You can always change your course.” She smiles. “You have so much potential, Eliott. And so much time.”

He can’t really believe it, but Eliott feels like crying.

Kioni must see it, because her face softens. “Eliott,” she says, and Eliott is reminded of when he first stepped into her office, an anxious freshman with an unfortunate haircut and a brand-new pack of paintbrushes. Kioni had taken one look at him and said, _Okay, let’s go_. Eliott had followed her out of her office, silent but confused, and didn’t say a word until they were outside, and Kioni was pointing at a soft patch of grass. _Sit_ , she said. _Take a deep breath of the air_.

Eliott had, without question, and when he said _thank you_ , she just smiled.

Four years later, and Eliott feels just as grateful as he did then, for her kind smile, her easy understanding.

“Yeah, you’re right,” he says. “You’re right.” He digs the heels of his hands into his eyes. He laughs a little, because he doesn’t know what to say.

Kioni laughs with him, and it feels like some of the air in the room is let out, like Eliott can breathe a little better, the truth of everything in his life no longer pressing down into his lungs.

“It’s a lot,” she acknowledges. “I know. Listen, if you want to submit the MFA applications, send me an email by Friday, and I can write you a recommendation letter over the weekend. Other than that, focus on your thesis. Maybe look into some workplaces hiring artists. But also,” she waves a hand out towards her window, to the waning afternoon sun. “Go for walks outside. Eat some good food. Talk to your friends.”

Eliott grins. “Yes ma’am.”

“I mean that.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Eliott jogs down the steps of the art building and takes a long, full breath, tilting his head back and releasing it to the cotton candy sky, trails of pale blue and pink chasing after the sun, following it in its descent to the horizon.

His hands fall at his sides, and he lets himself just exist for a moment, vibrantly alive in the cold air and cotton candy light. For the first time since Christmas, he doesn’t feel completely lost. He doesn’t necessarily feel found, either, but that’s alright.

Eliott has time.

He missed a text from Lucas while he was in the meeting, a picture of a pigeon on the sidewalk with the accompanying, **_saw this and thought of you <333333_** ****

He also missed a text from Sofiane: ** _still on for dinner tonight? we thought we’d try that new burger place_** ****

He responds to Lucas first, a _fuck you_ with a dozen sparkling heart emojis on the end, and then he asks Sofiane to send him the address for the restaurant.

It sits about halfway between campus and his apartment, but Eliott walks slowly, taking his time to admire the sky, to take some pictures on his phone, to text one of them to Lucas, and to think over his talk with Kioni. He’d honestly never even thought about the fact that what he did after graduation could change whenever he wanted. In his mind, it has always seemed so final, that whichever choice he made would define him, just as he’s been feeling his choices in his art define him.

If he really asks himself what he wants in the future, really tries to picture the perfect life, he sees himself making a living off of art in some way, but it’s never specific. He goes from seeing himself as a painter, selling his work in galleries, to an illustrator, submitting drawings to trendy magazines, to an animator, cutting short films in a home studio. The job itself doesn’t feel as important to him; it’s the creating. It’s the freedom to choose his own projects. It’s the lack of need to wear a suit and tie to work. When he imagines his ideal future, that’s what he sees.

And, maybe. Maybe he also sees—

His phone buzzes rapidly in his hand.

 **_the sky is so pretty omg_ ** ****

**_i wish i was outside :(((( stupid group reports :(((((_ ** ****

**_c is throwing erasers at me i have to goooo_ ** ****

Then:

 **_i’m going to miss not sleeping next to you tonight_ ** ****

Eliott’s heart is melting. It feels like the cotton candy sky, like all of the colours within it have melted into one pretty pile of goo, and in the middle of it all is the sun, waving from the horizon. He’s stopped his progress entirely, and a woman runs into him from behind, swearing loudly and ignoring his faint _sorry, I’m sorry_ , as he makes moon eyes down at his phone, as he pictures Lucas, sprawled across Celine’s sofa and biting down on his lip as he types out the message. It’s something Eliott has noticed always happens when Lucas says something that could be construed as clingy, as though he’s trying to bite back his own voice, and he’s sure it has something to do with the rugby player, with the college student Lucas dated when he was sixteen, and every time Eliott sees it, he wants to smooth Lucas’ nerves with his hands, wants to kiss away every doubt in his heart.

 _You can’t scare me away_ , he wants to say. _Not now. Not ever._

He always pulls back from saying it because before, he was worried he was the one who was going to chase Lucas away, and now, in the aftermath of their implosion, he’s still battling with the feeling that he has to earn Lucas’ trust again, that he can’t say things like _forever_ , and expect them to heal the cracks in both of their hearts.

But it doesn’t mean he’s not thinking about those things.

Eliott swerves around two dog owners getting tangled in their leashes as their dogs sniff at each other, and he’s building a daydream, conjuring up a rose-tinted image of a cheap apartment with terrible insulation and large windows, a kitchen with matching mugs in the cabinet, a large, sinfully comfortable bed. Big enough for two. He imagines a night just like this one, where they both have obligations to work or to friends, and he imagines how that would hardly matter, that they could disappear into their own lives, because at the very end of the night, they would be coming home to the same place.

To each other.

Eliott is so lost in the fantasy that he walks right by the restaurant, his face buried in his phone and his head floating in the cotton candy sky, and it’s with burning cheeks that he makes an abrupt turn on the sidewalk a block down, and half-walks, half-jogs back the place Google Maps is telling him he’s already arrived at.

He pushes open the glass door and is met with a wall of noise, shrieking laughter and raucous conversation and blaring 90s music, all accompanied by the yells of the kitchen staff, and it’s enough to pull him back down to Earth, out of the waking dream and into the slamming of steel bowls against a steel counter and the smell of salt and oil. He hides the fantasy away for now, tucking it carefully into his backpack amongst his sketchbook and well-marked copy of Plath and all sorts of other precious, private things. When he’s alone, he’ll take it out again and let it breathe, let it grow until it becomes an entire forest of _maybe_ that Eliott can get blissfully lost in. _Maybe they could… Maybe…_

“They’re over there.”

There’s a server standing in front of him, pointing a bright pink fingernail towards the back of the room, and she’s grinning like she’s in on a joke Eliott can only guess at. He blinks at her, feeling the phantom touch of tree branches brushing against his shoulders and smiles in return. He nods as a thank you and lopes towards the back, his smile growing wider when his eyes land on Sofiane and Idriss, huddled away in a booth in the corner, under a neon sign that says, _Who are you in your dreams?_

“There he is,” Idriss laughs, leaning back in his chair. “We were beginning to wonder if you’d been stolen away by fairies or something.”

“I wish,” Eliott groans, flopping down in the booth next to Sofiane and stealing a sip of his coke, then stealing a sip of Idriss’ beer. “Wouldn’t say no to disappearing.”

Sofiane raises his eyebrows. “So I take it the meeting went well?”

Eliott shrugs. “I mean, it went as well as it could have gone, with how behind I am. Kioni is…well, she’s always fucking amazing. She gave me some really good advice, but it’s just… I don’t know. We talked about the future.”

Idriss and Sofiane make matching sympathetic faces.

Eliott sinks further into the booth. The dark red upholstery scratches at the back of his neck. “Yeah, so. Turns out I have no idea what the fuck I’m going to do with my life.”

Idriss shakes his head. “Man, nobody does.”

“Imane does.” Sofiane says, a touch of pride colouring his voice.

“Imane doesn’t count,” Idriss says sourly. “She’s had a plan since she was in like, pre-school.”

“I think Lucas does,” Eliott murmurs, and he’s surprised when Idriss snorts loudly.

“No he doesn’t. He's talked to Celine about it, how he’s not sure he wants to go to med school anymore. He’s not even sure he has the grades for it.”

Eliott’s face must be a reflection of what’s going on inside of him, the unpleasant, sharp pain in his gut when he realizes that Lucas hasn’t told him anything about his, because Idriss flaps a hand out at him.

“No, no Eliott, that’s not it. I only know because he sent Celine a bunch of panicked texts the other night while I had her phone. And I’m only telling you because he’s too much of a stubborn bastard to tell you himself. He’s a bit proud, sometimes.”

Sofiane is smiling, shaking his head. “Imane is the same way,” he says fondly. “Never wants to let anyone know when she’s struggling.”

“I had no idea he was dealing with anything like that,” Eliott says softly, and he’s thinking about every night he saw Lucas struggling with his biology texts, thumping his head down to his desk and falling asleep at his laptop. “How did I miss it?” He drops his head onto Sofiane’s shoulder. “Am I a terrible boyfriend?” The memory of Marianne’s face, the bite in her voice when she said, _I swear Eliott, all you ever think about is yourself._

Eliott never wanted to believe her when she said that, but sometimes, sometimes he really doesn’t know.

Sofiane tilts his head down to rest their temples together. “No you’re not. I used to wonder about that sometimes, with Imane. Especially when we first got together. But the thing with Imane and Lucas is, for different reasons, they learned how to wall themselves up a long time ago. It’s not always easy to get them to be vulnerable. It takes time, and it takes trust.”

Across from them, Idriss has his arms crossed over his chest, but he’s looking at them with soft eyes, and Eliott doesn’t know if its affection for himself, for Sofiane, for Imane, for Lucas, for Celine, or if he’s thinking about them all at once. Eliott thinks he feels a bit of that in his heart, affection for every single one of them, for the flawed perfection of them. The fierce vulnerability.

They don’t say any of this. Instead, they look over their menus in silence, adrift in thought and distracted by the descriptions of burgers with topping combinations that sound entirely questionable but also intriguing, and their booth stays silent until their waiter comes by.

After he leaves, orders scrawled down on a small notepad, Sofiane nudges Eliott in the side.

“You will figure it out, you know.”

Eliott sighs. “I hope so.”

“You will.” Sofiane says with such confidence it makes Eliott smile. “I’m not worried about you, Eliott Demaury.”

Idriss bursts into laughter at something he sees on his phone, and when Eliott and Sofiane glance over at him with raised eyebrows, he lays it down on the table, nudging it over to them.

It’s a video from Celine’s Instagram: a shot of her living room, with textbooks on the floor, laptops open and snacks everywhere. Eliott thinks he can hear The Backstreet Boys playing in the background, as the camera cuts over to the sofa, where Lucas and Imane are standing on the cushions and singing along passionately, Imane moving along with the beat while Lucas dances in a way that could only be described as flailing. Lucas leans over and steals the phone from Celine, turning it around on her as she picks up the chorus of the song while launching into the running man.

It’s ridiculous. It’s borderline embarrassing. It’s the best thing Eliott has ever seen.

The video starts again and they can’t stop laughing, the three of them, laughing and shaking their heads and saying things like, _what idiots_ and, _how do they have such good grades?_

Idriss grins, rubbing a hand down his face. “We’re a couple of lucky bastards, you know?”

Eliott drops his chin into his hand. He watches as the Lucas in the video twirls on the sofa and laughs, beautiful and free and happy, and his heart stutters in his chest.

Yeah. He knows.

_Lucas — II_

When Lucas wakes up, the first thing he’s aware of is that he’s alone.

He’s annoyed by this at first, because Lucas has spent years sleeping alone, and he’s been absolutely fine. More than fine. But now that he’s become used to wrapping himself around Eliott as he sleeps, or feeling Eliott’s breath on the back of his neck, his fingers gently trailing across his skin in the seconds before his alarm goes off, the nights that he doesn’t have that feel long and cold.

His alarm goes off, and he groans, pressing his face into his pillow, away from the dawning sunlight, away from a day filled with lectures and labs, with diligently taking notes on things he’s not even interested in anymore.

Lucas knows this is something he’s going to have to face, probably sooner rather than later, since Celine told him that Idriss saw the texts he sent her when he was having a crisis in the second-floor bathroom in the science building.

 _I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing_ , one of the texts said.

 _I feel so lost_ , said another.

Flare guns from the middle of an ocean.

There’s a distinct possibility that Idriss told Eliott, and the last thing Lucas wants Eliott to think is that Lucas is deliberately keeping things from him, because he’s not. Lucas just didn’t want to burden Eliott with any of his stress, when he already has so much of his own. Lucas has seen how Eliott is struggling with his thesis. He’s seen how Eliott shuts down whenever there’s a mention of graduation, or life after school. In the midst of all that, it seemed ridiculous for Lucas to say something like, _I don’t want to go to medical school anymore._

Only, he and Eliott are supposed to be talking. About everything. Or at least, about the things that are weighing heavily on them. That was what they agreed on when they first got back together.

Lucas will tell him. He will.

He opens his phone to send a text.

_wanna meet for breakfast? fleurs sauvages bc i don’t want to spend money_

He gets a response right away.

**_yes please i have been desperately craving one of those damn apricot danishes since my last shift_ **

Lucas smiles, rolling over onto his back.

_okayyy see you there at 8_

Then he bites down on his lip.

_love you_

And there’s another immediate response.

 **_love you baby_ ** ****

**_gonna eat like five of those danishes then i’m gonna kiss you senseless_ ** ****

Lucas will be forever grateful in that moment that no one is around to hear the high-pitched giggle he lets out as he rolls back onto his stomach, kicking his feet at the sheets pooling around his knees.

But the feeling of the sound, the utter adoration it encompasses, must be showing on his face somehow, in the curve of his smile or the bags under his eyes, because when he steps out of his bedroom, towel slung over his shoulder, the first thing Yann does when he sees him is burst into laughter.

Lucas frowns. “What?” He asks tartly, clutching his towel more tightly to himself like it will shield him from judgement.

“Your _hair_ ,” Yann says, pointing at Lucas’ head with a banana. “You look like a mad scientist.”

“Oh.” Lucas feels his cheeks warm, his hand automatically moving up in an attempt to smooth the strands with little success. So he may have rolled around in his bed like a lovesick teenager while texting Eliott. It’s nobody’s business but his own. His hand drops back down to his side. “I mean, I wasn’t. Like I slept—”

Yann cuts the banana through the air like a sabre. “Nope. Definitely don’t need to know how that sentence ends.”

“Oh my _god_ I wasn’t doing anything! I was…” Lucas tries to pat down his hair again. “I was alone.”

Yann makes a face like he doesn’t know whether to be sympathetic towards Lucas, or pitying. “Yeah, I know. You were complaining about it all night.”

“No I wasn’t.” He was.

“You were.” Yann drops the banana to the armrest of the sofa, digging his hands into his backpack. Lucas gets the feeling that the banana is definitely pitying him. _You idiot,_ it’s saying to him, _you co-dependent fool._

“So, are you guys going to move in together?”

Lucas snaps his gaze away from the banana. Yann still has his hands buried in his backpack but he’s staring at Lucas like this is something he’s wanted to ask him for a while. Something he’s been expecting.

Lucas balks. “I mean…”

“Because I think you should,” Yann continues causally, as though he’s talking to Lucas about what beer he should order, not whether he should enter into cohabitation with his boyfriend.

It’s the easiness of it that gets him. Lucas shifts on the spot, fingers tangling in the towel. “You do?” He sounds tentative to his own ears.

Yann sighs, stepping towards Lucas to plant his hands on his shoulders. “Yeah, I do. I think it would be good for you two.”

 _Yes,_ a voice in Lucas’ head says, one that sounds like coffee dates and kisses in the rain and daydreams come to life. _Yes, yes, yes._

Lucas hastily tampers down the voice. “But Eliott and I, we still have a lot to figure out, right? Like, we broke up only a few months ago. We really hurt each other. I don’t know if it would be…” What? What wouldn’t it be? Right? Healthy? Lucas can’t even think of the word, because the voice is pushing back against him, the only thing he can hear is the voice saying, _Good. It will be so good._

“No, come on.” Yann squeezes his shoulders gently. “I don’t mean moving in together today. But…soon.” His hands drops from Lucas’ shoulders but he stays close, tilting his head down to meet Lucas’ eyes. “You guys did break up. And you did hurt each other. But you’re back together now. You’re working through everything. And you, I mean…” Yann’s smile looks like every summer they spent together in high school, the inherent safety and understanding of your best friend. “You love each other, don’t you?”

Lucas nods.

“Then talk to him about it. Because our lease is up in May, and Arthur’s cousin is moving out of their place in April. He said I could move in there, if I wanted to.”

Lucas’ mouth drops open. “You talked to Arthur about this? When?”

Yann crosses his arm over his chest. There’s a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Honestly, Lucas? I started thinking about finding another place to live as soon as you guys started dating. I see what you’re like together. I knew it was only a matter of time.”

“What the hell does _that_ mean?”

Yann shrugs one shoulder up. “I figured you two were it for each other.”

There’s not a single thing Lucas can think to say to that. Nothing he can pull out of his head that feels like an appropriate response for when your best friend tells you that he thinks your boyfriend is the love of your life.

 _Soulmates,_ the voice in Lucas’ head says gleefully, doing cartwheels along his frontal lobe. _Soulmates!_

“Yann Cazas…” Lucas says slowly, dubiously, his eyes narrowed. “Are you a closet romantic?”

“You know Lucas, unlike some people in this apartment, I actually go out of my way to educate myself. I’ve seen _Pride and Prejudice_. I’ve read Sappho. I know what romance is about.”

Lucas stares at him. “What,” he starts faintly, but that’s all he’s able to get out, because that’s when both of them starting laughing, uncontrollable guffaws that are far too loud and too boisterous for seven the morning on a Wednesday.

The banana must be judging them both now from its vantage point on the sofa.

 _Idiots._ The banana is saying. _Utter imbeciles._

“Just talk to him about it,” Yann says when their laughter has finally died down to breathless giggles, clapping Lucas on the shoulder once again. “I’m sure he’ll want to.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. He’s so in love with you, I’m actually embarrassed for him.”

“Shut up.” Lucas rolls his eyes, shrugging off Yann’s hand. “I want to ask him, I really do. But he’s under a lot of pressure right now, with his thesis and with graduating, and…yeah. We’re both really unsure about where we’ll be in the future. I don’t know if it makes sense to plan to move in together if everything else in our lives is so up in the air.”

Yann’s eyebrows furrow together. “Are you changing your mind about medical school?”

Lucas takes a deep breath. He keeps thinking it, keeps dancing around the truth that he’s been trying to ignore out of fear. “I think so. It’s a big commitment, it’s a lot of money and I just. I don’t feel the same way about it that I used to.”

“Okay.” Yann is nodding slowly, eyes focused on Lucas. Then his phone buzzes to life on the coffee table, and Yann startles, swearing. “Okay. Fuck, I have to get going, but we are definitely talking about this later.” He says, returning to his backpack, grabbing the banana of judgement from the armrest. “But Lucas, don’t worry about that. Seriously. Trust me when I say that none of us really know what we’re doing. We’re just taking every day as it comes, and doing our best to make ourselves happy. That’s all there is. If you want to work on a bee farm instead of being a doctor, then do it. If you want to move in with your boyfriend, then ask him. We have time to figure out the rest.”

Lucas eyes feel watery. He blinks up at the ceiling, laughing weakly. “Why would you say a bee keeper? Of all things?”

“Because bees are awesome.” Yann crosses to the door to shove his feet into his sneakers, slipping into his coat and shrugging on his backpack. “Fuck, I’m going to be late for yoga, but I mean it.” He points the banana at Lucas again, holding it like a handgun. “I’m getting whiskey on my way home from class and we are going to talk about this.”

“Okay.” Lucas folds his towel into his arms, dropping his chin to rest on top of it. “Hey, Yann.” Their eyes lock across the hallway. “Thank you.”

Yann smiles, wide and warm, and it’s every single summer. “It’ll be okay, Lucas. Trust me.”

Then he’s out the door, and gone.

Lucas stands there after the door shuts behind him, in the quiet, sunlit aftermath of baring his heart, and he lets himself bask in the feeling of ease, the weightlessness it brings. He lets himself be buoyed by possibilities, by things he never thought could never be in his reach.

Then he sees the time of the stove clock, and swears loudly, disappearing into the bathroom and slamming the door shut behind himself.

Eliott is already waiting at Fleurs Sauvages when Lucas arrives, panting, his hair still damp at the back. Eliott’s bike is locked to the post by the curb, his hands are tucked into the pockets of his coat, and he’s leaning against the wall of the café, his eyes lazily following people up and down the street, drifting over their faces.

When he sees Lucas, his entire face scrunches into a smile, and Lucas is helpless but to make one in return. He jogs across the street, feeling another lovesick giggle bubbling in his chest, giddy and drunken like he’s filled with champagne, and as he steps up onto the curb, Eliott takes a step forward, sweeping Lucas up into his arms, pulling him into a tight hug. Lucas lets out a yelp when his feet leave the ground, wrapping his arms tightly around Eliott’s shoulders, but then the giggle that was trapped between his lungs and his mouth is set free, and Lucas is laughing into Eliott’s ear and Eliott is laughing into Lucas’ ear and they try to kiss but their smiles get in the way, teeth bumping together, and that just makes them laugh more.

Lucas’ feet touch back to the ground, but he stays on his toes to press a kiss to Eliott’s cheek.

“Hi,” he says, smiling so widely he feels his cheeks straining with it.

Eliott leans down, chasing Lucas onto his heels to rub their noses together. “Hi. I missed you.”

Lucas hums, brushing a hand through the front of Eliott’s hair. “Missed you too.”

Eliott leans into his touch, his eyes fluttering shut, and it’s eight in the morning and they’re standing on the sidewalk of a crowded street, but it’s like the world narrows just to them, just to the touch of Lucas’ fingers to Eliott’s skin, the sensation of Eliott’s hair brushing against his knuckles, the sweet smile on Eliott’s face.

But then Eliott’s eyes open, and Lucas’ stomach growls and the world comes rushing back all at once, the sounds of the traffic behind them, the people passing them by, talking into their phones or staring into the middle distance, clutching onto their cups of coffee like they’re life preservers.

“Come on,” Eliott says, guiding Lucas to the door with an arm around his shoulders. “I can hear the danishes calling me.”

The café is quiet inside: some regulars queuing up for their morning coffee at the counter and a handful of patrons scattered around the tables, but otherwise empty, with soft music playing from a portable speaker on the counter and the smell of fresh bread wafting around the room.

Émile waves at them from behind the counter, a pastry bag in one hand and a pair of tongs in the other. The ends of her hair are pink now, twisted into two long braids, and Lucas thinks he sees a new tattoo on her arm.

Eliott goes to the counter, and Lucas snags them a table by a window, the glass still frosted at the corners from the cold night, the stencilled letters casting long shadows across the table from the rising sun. He drops into one of the chairs and watches Eliott as he bounces behind the counter, reaching into the pastry case with a bare hand, and laughing when Émile smacks him with the tongs.

He’s wearing all black today, t-shirt and hoodie and jeans and Doc Martens. His hair looks soft and his eyes look tired, and Lucas wonders if he had another late night working on his thesis. He wonders if Eliott is just as stressed now as he was in the fall. He wonders if Eliott’s been struggling more than he’s been telling Lucas. It hurts his heart a little, the idea of it, until he realizes that’s exactly what he’s been doing, keeping his fears and anxieties hidden away from Eliott. Not wanting to burden him.

Lucas startles in his seat as a plate is set down in front of him with a flourish. It’s two apricot danishes, staring up at him cheerily from pale green porcelain, and Lucas blinks as Eliott bounces away again, retrieving two cups from the counter and carrying them over, making a face at Lucas when he nearly spills one of them onto the floor.

“Et voilà!” He exclaims proudly, placing one of the cups in front of Lucas. It’s a latte, with a lopsided heart drawn into the foam. “Made them myself.”

“I don’t know how you still have this job,” Lucas says solemnly. Eliott laughs at that, and it makes Lucas smile into his sip of coffee. “Oh,” he says in surprise, cradling it in both hands. “This is actually really good.”

“And _that_ is why I still have this job.” Eliott laughs as he drags the other chair over to Lucas’ side of the table, close enough that when he sits down, their elbows bump together.

“Thank you.” Lucas murmurs, pulling Eliott in for a kiss with a hand on the back of his neck.

“You’re welcome.” Another kiss. “It’s actually a lot more fun when I’m making drinks for you.”

The danishes are sinfully good, fresh out of the industrial oven in the back, crispy on the corners and flaky on the inside, with gooey, sweet apricot dripping onto their fingers, getting caught at the corners of their mouths, and even managing to get on Lucas’ cheek. Eliott tries to lick it off, which makes Lucas yelp, whacking him in the shoulder.

“You’re gross,” he moans, leaning back into the window.

Eliott just grins, following him. “And you’re delicious,” he says, dropping a trail of kisses across Lucas’ cheek, down to his mouth.

Lucas giggles into it, giving a very half-hearted performance at trying to get away. “Eliott, _noooo_.”

“Fucking hell, you guys.”

They break apart, eyes wide and lips parted, and turn to see Émile standing in front of their table, a plastic tub of dirty dishes balanced on her hip.

“Honestly,” she complains, adding their empty plate to her bin, “you make me feel single. And I’m in a fucking relationship.”

“Maybe that says something about your relationship,” Lucas says sweetly. Émile flips him off.

“Fuck off. You two are on a whole different level of soulmate shit. It’s obnoxious. But don’t stop,” she says brightly, patting Eliott on the head. “Keep being obnoxious. It’s a win for us gays.”

Eliott snorts, but he also stretches his arm over the back of Lucas’ chair, gently scratching between his shoulder blades. Lucas can’t bring himself to look over at Eliott, too preoccupied by that word. The one that keeps finding him, lately.

_Soulmates._

“So,” Émile starts, cocking her head, “should I even ask you how your thesis is going, or…?”

“Nah, it’s okay.” Eliott ruffles his free hand through his hair. “You know, it could be going better. I’ve been having a lot of issues, but I, uh, I got some great advice from Kioni yesterday. It’s really been sitting with me.” He sighs, lifting one shoulder. “I’m going to try the studio today and see what happens.”

“Ah, Eliott, that’s great.” Émile says happily. “Really. I’m glad you’re feeling inspired. If you need any second opinions on anything, don’t hesitate to ask, okay?”

Eliott smiles shyly, nodding. “Yeah, okay.”

“Okay.” Émile raps one hand against their table. “I’ll see you guys later. And remember, keep being obnoxious!”

Eliott giggles into his coffee, eyes dancing over to Lucas as Émile skips away. “You heard her,” he says suggestively, wiggling his eyebrows, and he’s moving his hand to Lucas’ neck to pull him into a kiss, slow and sweet like honey, and Lucas sinks into it, shifting forwards in his chair, his head tilting back into Eliott’s hand.

He really could, he thinks, just let himself be kissed senseless. For hours. And he would miss class, and maybe miss a quiz, and maybe miss the entire day, just letting himself be kissed in a café by Eliott Demaury and having the rest of the world slip away until it’s completely gone.

It’s ridiculous. He knows it’s ridiculous as he thinks it, but he lets himself build a little daydream of it, of letting go of school altogether, dropping his obligations, his anxieties, and letting himself be consumed by Eliott’s affection. Drowning in the space between one kiss and the next.

Eliott sighs against his lips. “Fuck, I could kiss you forever.” He says, and then he huffs a small laugh, pulling back from Lucas just far enough that their lips can no longer touch. “But, you know,” he whispers, “we are in the middle of my workplace.”

“You’re not working right now,” Lucas whispers back, and Eliott nods like he’s just said something profound.

“That’s true. That’s very true.” His eyes are on Lucas’ lips, and he’s leaning in again, but this time Lucas pulls away, planting his hands on Eliott’s chest to gently push him back. He can practically feel Yann sending him encouraging energy all the way from whatever yoga class he’s in.

_You should tell him._

He starts with something else, with another thing that’s been weighing on him. “It’s, uh.” Eliott raises his eyebrows at him. “It’s good that your meeting went well. With your supervisor. I know we haven’t really talked about it.”

Eliott sits back as well, propping one arm up on the table, the other dropping to Lucas’ lap, twinning their fingers together. “Well. I’m really behind in my work.” He tells him, eyes drifting between their hands and Lucas’ eyes. “So I have a lot to catch up on, and my supervisor knows it, but yeah, it did go well because she told me something I really needed to hear. A few things, actually.”

“That’s good,” Lucas says softly, squeezing Eliott’s fingers.

“It is.” Eliott smiles, squeezing back. “I’ve told you what it’s about, right? The mysteries of the modern world?”

Lucas nods. He remembers sitting cross-legged on Eliott’s bed as he paced around the room, reading his proposal out loud, then nervously asking Lucas what he thought. Lucas remembers how he said, _It’s brilliant, Eliott,_ and he had meant it. At least, it was brilliant to Lucas. He was no art expert, but he liked it. He liked the wonder and magic of it.

“Well, the research part was fine. It’s was great, actually, and I had my outline done really quickly. But the other part, the visual component, that’s been much harder, which is strange because normally it’s the other way around for me.”

“But you’re feeling…” Lucas searches for the word. “Inspired?”

Eliott bobs his head to the side. The sunlight catches on his eyes, and Lucas watches as they go from pale blue to light grey, nearly colourless from the light, and back to blue again “Kind of. It’s more like I’m feeling…rested, if that makes sense. Like now, I’m ready to go again.”

Lucas smiles. He’s always loved picturing Eliott in the studio, with his giant canvases and his brushes, buckets of colour at his feet and the ability to create worlds in his hands. Lucas never asks him much about it, because he’s always thought Eliott’s artistic process was a private thing, but he has wondered. He wonders if Eliott listens to music while he paints, or if the room is silent. He wonders if Eliott works in bursts of activity, furious flurries of colour and brushes, then collapses to the floor to have a coffee, or if he works slowly, methodically, holding a coffee in one hand while he strokes colour across stark white with the other.

What he does know is that Eliott loves making art. Loves creating like nothing else in the world. And he’s good at it.

“It’s going to be amazing,” Lucas tells him, because it’s true, and he’s not sure he can verbalize the rest, but, “I really believe in you.”

Eliott brings their linked hands up to his mouth, presses a gentle kiss to Lucas’ knuckles. “Thank you.” He leans his cheek against their hands. “You know, the same goes for me. I believe in you.”

“For what?”

“Everything.”

It’s as good as an opening Lucas will ever get, so he musters all of the courage he had earlier with Yann, and says it.

“I don’t want to go to medical school anymore.”

Eliott slowly lowers their hands back to Lucas’ lap. His eyes are intense on him when he asks, “You’re sure?”

“Yeah. Yes.” Lucas takes a long, deep breath. “I know it’s been my goal since I was…god, thirteen, maybe? And my dad was so excited about it when I told him. I don’t think he’s ever been so proud of me. I loved how that felt, so I stuck to it. Even when I was choosing my major, and as I was looking through the biochem courses, all I could think was, ‘Is this really where I want to be?’” But he’d done it anyway, because the thought of doing anything else was terrifying, and with every class he went to, every course he completed, he sank further into doubt. “And now, yes, I’m sure that it’s not what I want.”

Eliott nods, tracing a thumb across the back of his hand.

“I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you earlier,” Lucas says in a rush, his cheeks warm. “I didn’t want to tell anyone at all, not until I had it completely figured out because, well, that’s what I usually do. But then I, uh, had a panic attack in the washroom one day and I texted Celine.”

“I know.” Lucas’ eyes snap up to Eliott, who looks chagrined. “Idriss told me.”

 _Fuck's sake._ “Of course he did,” Lucas groans.

“It’s only because he was worried about you, I think.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Honestly? I wanted you to want to tell me. But I also know you’re a stubborn shit when you mean to be.”

Lucas laughs, using his free hand to push Eliott’s face away with an open palm. “ _Please_. You’re just as stubborn as I am.”

Eliott looks so offended at that, like Lucas just gave him the worst insult, that he laughs harder, sinking down into his chair with his knees pointed at Eliott and his back pressed against the cold glass of the window. Eliott hasn’t asked him what he wants to do instead, and Lucas is infinitely grateful for it, when he knows that if it was anyone else, they would be asking him that. It would be scary, if it wasn’t so overwhelmingly amazing, how well Eliott knows him. How well he understands him.

“But you know,” Eliott says, draining the last of his coffee in one gulp, “we’re in the same position right now.”

Lucas remembers when Eliott mentioned something about it before, about not knowing what to do after he graduates. They never talked about it after that, but Lucas had a feeling it was something that still weighed heavily on Eliott’s mind. Except right now, Eliott doesn’t look troubled by it. He looks…amused.

“You still don’t know about the master’s?”

Eliott shakes his head. “No. Kioni was telling me that she can help me make the deadline, but…I don’t know. I’m starting to think it may be a good idea for me to take a break from school. Maybe just for a year, and if I want to apply after that, then I’ll apply.”

Lucas hums in agreement, bringing his free hand down to his lap to play with Eliott’s fingers. “That sounds smart.”

“Well good, because aside from that, I have no fucking clue what I’m doing.” They both laugh, and Eliott’s eyes fall to their hands, to where Lucas is stroking a finger along his knuckles. “It looks like neither of us really have a plan right now, but you know what? I’ve heard from a few people lately that that’s not a bad thing.”

“That’s funny,” Lucas says, grinning, “because I’ve heard the same thing.”

“Maybe we should listen to them.”

“Maybe.”

Neither of them realize it, but they’re leaning together as they talk, shifting forward in their seats and moving closer by centimetres, their eyes locked together.

“Maybe,” Lucas begins slowly, “we just let it all go. The pressure we’ve put on ourselves, the expectations we’re trying to cling to. Maybe we let that all go, and we decide to do the scary thing.”

Eliott licks his lips. “What’s the scary thing?”

“Allowing everything to change.”

And Eliott smiles. “Okay,” he says. They’re so close now they can smell the coffee and pastries on each other’s breath. “Let’s do that.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

They kiss, and it's a kiss borne out of excitement, of the giddy rush of youth mixed with endless time and possibility, but it’s also a kiss of reassurance, a small _I’m here with you,_ a beautifully comforting, _I think we’ll be okay, the two of us._

“I love you,” Lucas murmurs between one kiss and another, their foreheads pressed together, his hands cupping the sides of Eliott’s neck. “Thank you. For listening to me. For being amazing.”

“I love you too,” Eliott says softly into his ear, kissing the skin just below it. “We’re going to be okay, baby. We’re going to make it.”

“I know,” Lucas says, and he’s pulled into another kiss. “I know,” he mumbles against Eliott’s lips, stroking his fingertips along his skin, ignoring the cat-calls being directed at them from behind the counter. _I know_ , he thinks, as he lets himself be kissed into blissful senselessness. _We’re going to be okay._

_Eliott — III_

It’s Friday, the apartment is empty, and Eliott has a bottle of red wine sitting on the counter and a Jeff Buckley record spinning on the turntable.

He has a date tonight.

“Come over tomorrow,” he told Lucas yesterday morning, before they’d parted ways at the edge of campus, lingering in the early sunlight, their linked hands swinging between them. “After your dinner with Yann. We can…hang out. Drink some wine and stuff.”

“Like a date?” Lucas asked, wiggling his eyebrows.

“Sure, yeah. A date.”

Eliott had said it casually, like it was no big deal to him, because Lucas was his boyfriend and they hung out together all the time. Super casual.

Only, there was something about the labelling of it, a suggestion in the curl of Lucas’ tongue when he said it, that made the back of Eliott’s neck feel hot. It was as though Lucas could read every thought that was passing through his head.

Because Eliott has a plan. Kind of.

The plan is basic, borderline effortless, and it mainly involves taking a thorough shower after getting home, pouring the red wine, putting on a good record, and arranging himself into an intriguing position on the couch when Lucas arrives. Maybe wearing that old t-shirt he has, the one that’s too short on the torso and tends to ride up whenever Eliott stretches.

It’s not that he’s only thinking about getting laid, because he’s not. Eliott is always looking for reasons to spend time with Lucas, always hungry for his presence and eager for the sound of his voice, the softness of his hands in Eliott’s.

It’s not that he’s only thinking about getting laid, but well, he is thinking about it. He’s _been_ thinking about it. For weeks.

When they first got back together, Eliott was in the wrong headspace to do anything sexual, and they spent their time focusing more on talking, communicating, and healing. Then exams came and Lucas turned into a ghost of himself, disappearing until late in the night, always pale and tired. Then it was Christmas, and they both had family obligations, then the new year came and term started again, and they just…haven’t.

There was a particularly memorable hand job in the shower a few weeks ago, and a mind-numbingly good make out session on Lucas’ sofa before that. There are the tight hugs, the long, lingering kisses, casual touches like fingers skimming across forearms, knees knocking together under a table. They’re tactile together, in a way Eliott knows is a bit intense for some people but it’s how they’ve always been, since that very first night.

Most of the time, it’s comforting. The weight of Lucas’ hand on Eliott’s back, on his knee, in the crook of his arm, is a balm to his nervous heart like nothing he’s ever felt before. It feels like falling into a safe place. It feels a little bit like home.

But lately, these casual touches are stoking a burning fire within Eliott rather than soothing one. Every brush of Lucas’ skin against his leaves sparks in its wake. Every gentle caress is an oil spill on the surface of a stormy sea. Every glance from Lucas’ eyes sets him off like a wildfire.

Eliott’s never been so desperate to be touched, really touched, in his entire life. His desire for Lucas has always been overwhelming, an electrical storm he tries to catch in a jar, but this…he can barely understand it.

And whenever he tries to initiate something, lets his hands wander down Lucas’ back to the curve of his ass, tugs Lucas on top of him when they’re going to bed, Lucas always pulls back, telling Eliott that he’s tired, that he’s distracted, or just acting like nothing happened at all, like Lucas doesn’t have a raging hard-on tenting his sweatpants. Eliott has a suspicion it has something to do with this building trust between them, with Eliott’s self-doubt and Lucas’ low self-esteem, with the warring fear within both of them that they’ll do something wrong, and everything will fall apart.

They’ve been moving past that, though. They’ve been working on it. At least, Eliott thinks they have.

Eliott wants to grip onto Lucas’ hands and hold them close to his chest. He wants to look him straight in the eye and say, _I trust you, Lucas, okay? I’m telling you, I trust you. I want you. I want you so fucking bad it aches, so can you please just…touch me?_

And he might do that, if the plan doesn’t work. Because he and Lucas tell each other everything now, because he really is that desperate, and because he actually thinks they could both do with hearing something like that from each other.

He putters around the living room while waiting for Lucas, folding and re-folding the blanket on the sofa, checking his hair in the hall mirror, lighting a candle on the coffee table, then blowing it out because he decides it’s too much. He’s debating about lighting it again when there’s a swift knock at the door.

Eliott flies up from the sofa, bounding over to the hall mirror to fluff his hair up one more time, then opening the door to find Lucas, wearing sweatpants and a puffy coat, his cheeks pink from the cold.

“Hi,” Eliott says, and he’s stepping aside as Lucas brushes past him, dropping his backpack to the floor and beginning to shed layers, unzipping his coat and unwinding a dark blue scarf from around his neck. Eliott lets the door slam shut behind him. “You okay?”

“M’fine. It’s just so _fucking_ cold outside,” Lucas grumbles. He hangs up the coat and scarf and then he’s coming back towards Eliott, stepping onto his toes to press a quick kiss to his cheek. “Hi.” Another kiss to his cheek. “You look nice.”

Eliott glances down at his black shirt and black sweatpants like he doesn’t already know exactly what he has on, like he didn’t spend fifteen minutes deliberating how casual he should be for a night in with his boyfriend, and finally deciding on his good sweatpants, the fitted ones that emphasize the length of his legs.

“Thanks,” he murmurs, burying his nose in Lucas’ hair. “So do you.”

“Well,” Lucas says sincerely, “I had to dress up for date night.”

Eliott hums, wrapping his arms around Lucas’ shoulders, keeping him close _._ “Of course you did,” he says, swaying them on the spot. “This is a very serious date.”

“Are we still going to be drinking wine out of plastic cups?”

“Lucas.” Eliott makes an offended face, pulling his head back. “Obviously not.”

He pours the wine into coffee mugs, which makes Lucas laugh so hard he collapses onto the countertop.

“Will I ever have,” Eliott asks quietly to the kitchen window, to the ever-knowing moon beyond it, “a date with Lucas where he doesn’t make fun of me?”

“I’m not making fun of you!” Lucas protests, the laughter still fading from his voice. He examines the mug in his hands. “I actually think I like it. There’s a charm to it.” He holds it out to Eliott. “Here. A toast: to date night.”

Eliott knocks their mugs together. “To date night,” he agrees, and their eyes lock over the rims of their cups as they drink.

“So,” Lucas says, swanning out of the kitchen, his mug held aloft, “what’s the big plan for date night? Are we going to watch a film? Listen to records and dance?” He turns back to Eliott, raising his eyebrows. “Or not dance?”

Eliott feels his face flush. He takes a fortifying sip of wine. _The plan, you have a plan_. “I thought we could talk,” he says quietly, “and just…hang out.”

Lucas’ entire face softens. He steps back into the kitchen, reaching for Eliott’s free hand and linking their fingers together. “I’d like that,” he says, tugging Eliott closer. “I like doing anything with you.”

Eliott swallows loudly. “Okay.” He thinks he can hear his own pulse, a runaway train of heady desire beneath his skin. He wants to be kissed on the couch all night. He wants to get his mouth on Lucas, anywhere, everywhere. He wants to make Lucas moan. He wants to feel Lucas’ mouth on him. He wants to be fucked, he thinks. He wants to be held tightly, held down. He wants to feel desired. It’s a bit embarrassing to admit, even to himself, but he wants to feel sexy. More than wants, he thinks he might need it.

“But firstly,” Lucas is saying, setting his wine down on the coffee table and heading back into the hallway, “I have something for you.” He retrieves his backpack from the floor and brings it to the sofa, where Eliott is blinking at him in confusion.

“It’s not an anniversary,” Eliott says slowly, fairly sure it’s not but also wondering if it’s possible he missed something.

Lucas laughs, digging a hand into the bag. “No, no. You’re the anniversary expert, this is just…” He pulls out a thin paperback, holding it out to Eliott. “This is just a thing.”

“A thing,” Eliott echoes, and his fingers brush against Lucas’ as he takes the book from him, their eyes meeting like a flicker of lightning.

“I’ve seen you reading it,” Lucas explains, “in the store. I don’t know much about poetry but I know they’re pretty famous, like, even Yann has read them, and you know our staff discount is really good, and I wanted to get you something because you’ve been so stressed lately, I thought that you might, uh…I thought this might be nice.” His cheeks are pink again by the time he finishes, his bottom lip between his teeth.

Eliott peers down at the book. Written across a pale yellow cover are the words: _Collected Poems of Sappho._

Eliott thinks he may have just fallen in love again.

“Lucas.” He stares down at the book, then stares at Lucas, then back down at the book again, running his thumb over the cover. “This is perfect.” Their eyes meet again, and they both smile. “Thank you so much.”

“It’s nothing,” Lucas says, and Eliott wants to argue with that because it’s everything, Lucas is giving him everything he never dreamed he could have had, someone who cares about him so deeply that they remember things about him, they do sweet things for him for no reason other than to do them.

“I love you,” Eliott says instead, but he thinks it gets his point across well enough, because Lucas is beaming, bright as sunlight over a meadow and when Eliott leans down to kiss him, he thinks he can feel soft grass tickling at his back.

 _You are a dream, Lucas Lallemant_.

_Lucas — III_

Eliott tastes like red wine and desire.

Lucas can’t get enough of it, gently parting Eliott’s lips so he can delve in further with his tongue, searching for the source of that sweet, intoxicating taste that’s pure Eliott. His hands come up to Eliott’s hips, gripping him there and tugging him closer, bringing their bodies flush together so he can kiss him harder, searching for more of that taste. More of Eliott’s soft, wet tongue. More of his slick lips. _More_.

Eliott whines into it, his arms winding around Lucas’ shoulders and his body slumping downwards like he’s trying to make himself small, like he wants Lucas to pick up him, break him into pieces, and put him back together.

And, yeah. Lucas can do that.

In the front pocket of his backpack there are a few things. Just some supplies in case anything were to happen tonight, not that Lucas was sure anything was going to happen. He just likes being prepared, that’s all.

But it’s been…on his mind lately. How the last time they had sex was before the break up, and since then they’re either not ready, or they’re not in the mood, or they’re busy. Of course Lucas doesn’t care that much. He may be a young man but he doesn’t actually think about fucking all the time, and the last thing Lucas would ever want to do would be to pressure Eliott to have sex when he’s not in the right headspace, or if he’s even just not feeling it. He’d rather hold hands, fall asleep together, or do nothing at all but talk any day of the week. He loves Eliott, and all he ever wants is for him to feel safe and happy.

Except, he is still human, and when his stupidly gorgeous boyfriend kisses him like _this_ , like Lucas has been thinking about for weeks whenever he jerks off in the shower, then Lucas is helpless to do anything but give himself over to it, grip onto the end of a comet and let it carry him into another galaxy, his insides ablaze with sunfire and moondust on his fingertips.

(The long and short of it is Lucas is so horny he might explode.)

So when Eliott pulls back, his tongue dragging over those deep pink, wine-sweet lips, Lucas has half a mind to yank him back in, to say, _No. Come here. Stay here._ He groans at the loss, his hands twisting in the soft material of Eliott’s t-shirt, fingers brushing against the warm skin of his lower back.

“I, uh…”

Eliott is trying to say something, so Lucas tries to focus, ordering his brain to listen, and not to get carried away thinking about how warm Eliott must be all over, how good it would feel to press up against him with nothing between them.

Focus. He has to focus.

“Eliott?” He asks, and he internally winces at how hoarse his voice sounds, clearing his throat in a lame attempt to mask it.

“I think I want to ask you something,” Eliott says, choosing his words slowly, keeping his eyes locked on the tips of Lucas’ hair. He’s nervous, Lucas realizes, and he extracts his hands from underneath Eliott’s shirt, smoothing the material back in place.

“What’s wrong?” He runs his hand up to Eliott’s shoulders blades, gently scratching between them. “Eliott, talk to me.”

Eliott sighs, tilting his head back towards the ceiling. “There’s nothing wrong. I’m just being awkward.” His head comes back down and there’s a crooked, self-deprecating smile in place. “I had this whole plan tonight that was going to be all effortless and smooth, but I should have figured it would never work because I am not effortless and smooth.”

“Yes you are,” Lucas argues, brows furrowing together, because he is. Eliott’s always been the smooth one in their relationship. “That first night we met, you were so smooth I could barely believe it.”

Eliott laughs, eyes crinkling up, and Lucas’ heart stutters. “Honestly, I was just trying to impress you. I wanted you to think I was cool.”

“You are cool.” He really is. “You’re the coolest person I know.”

“Yeah, well, that’s not saying much.”

Lucas gasps, extracting his arms from around Eliott to smack him in the shoulder. “You asshole! I know plenty of cool people. Also what kind of self-burn is that, _my_ friends are _your_ friends—”

“Do you want to have sex?” Eliott blurts out, and Lucas’ mind short-circuits.

“Yes.” He says immediately, barely able to process anything other than _Eliott_ and _sex._ “Yes, I definitely do.” Then his brain kicks up again, and he’s softening, reaching for Eliott and rubbing a hand across his lower back. “I always do. Okay, not literally always, but you know what I mean. I’ve never wanted anyone like I want you.”

“Oh.” Eliott smiles, small and bashful, like he’s surprised by this. It’s sweet, but it doesn’t make sense to Lucas, who’s sure his constant want for Eliott is written out in every constellation, for everyone to see, _Ah yes, and this one’s really easy to spot. It’s called, ‘Lucas Lallemant loves Eliott Demaury with everything he is, and is never not wanting him.’_

Or something like that.

“I mean tonight,” Eliott is saying, his eyes fixed on a point just over Lucas’ shoulder. “Do you want to have sex tonight?”

Lucas gets the feeling that this is something Eliott has been thinking about for a while. Maybe something he’s been missing. Maybe something he feels insecure about asking.

So he says, “I do,” clearly and without hesitation, then he’s tilting his head to meet Eliott’s eyes. “But do you? We don’t have to if you don’t want to Eliott, you know that.”

“I really really want to,” Eliott says, so fast that Lucas lets out a surprised laugh, using his hand on Eliott’s back to pull them a bit closer together.

“Yeah?” He asks softly, letting his hand slip back under Eliott’s shirt, petting at the skin there. “You want that, sweetheart? Want me to make you feel good?” Lucas is trying to act like the idea of it isn’t driving him wild, of Eliott thinking about it, wanting it. Maybe jerking off desperately in the shower thinking about it, like Lucas does.

Eliott lets out a breath, his whole body slumping forwards, like having Lucas verbalize it has sucked all of the tension from his body. “God, yes. You have no idea.”

“Oh trust me, I do.” Lucas brings his other hand up to cup Eliott’s cheek, smiling when Eliott tilts his face into his palm. “Why didn’t you say something earlier?”

Eliott frowns, pained. “I didn’t want to _say_ anything. I just wanted to…let it happen, I dunno.”

“You, what,” Lucas giggles, “you thought you would sprawl across the sofa seductively and that would be it?”

Eliott looks embarrassed by this, which is all kinds of amazing, and Lucas laughs even harder.

“Stop,” Eliott groans. “It’s so lame saying it out loud.”

“Honestly,” Lucas says through his peals of laughter, “that probably would have worked.”

“ _Stop_.”

“I mean it.” Lucas brings his other hand up to Eliott’s face now, stroking across his cheeks. “But, you know, we haven’t in a while. And we haven’t really talked about it, which is okay, but I didn’t want to push you.”

“I know.” Eliott sighs. He gently bites down on Lucas’ thumb when it drifts to his bottom lip. “I thought talking about it would be difficult. And a bit ridiculous.”

“It’s not so bad. We’re talking about it right now.”

“But it is a little ridiculous.”

“Maybe.” Lucas gives a small shrug. His hands move to Eliott’s shoulders, smoothing down his arms until he reaches his hands, linking their fingers together. “But it feels good, doesn’t it?”

Eliott nods. “It does, actually.”

“Good.” They smile at each other for a moment, soft in the low light of the apartment, and Lucas lets his eyes travel across Eliott’s face, lingering on his eyelashes and his cupid’s bow, drifting down to his neck, then back up again.

He’s so completely, utterly beautiful. He’s a shooting star across Lucas’ sky.

“I love you,” he tells him, quietly but sincerely, meeting his eyes across the inches of space between them.

Eliott’s eyes blink closed, one slow swoop of his lashes that hits Lucas like a wave. He feels like he’s vibrating in his own skin, he wants him so badly. “I love you too,” Eliott says, and that’s it. That’s enough now. Lucas has to touch him. Really touch him.

“Come over here,” he says.

_Eliott — III_

“Come over here,” Lucas says, and Eliott steps forward, melting into Lucas’ arms in a way that would be embarrassing if it was anyone else. If it wasn’t Lucas, who is always trying to make Eliott feel loved and safe. Lucas, who looks at Eliott like he’s beautiful and listens to him like he’s important. Lucas, who’s kissing Eliott so deeply, so thoroughly, that Eliott’s head is swimming. The record he put on has stopped, the needle skipping over bumpy static, but Eliott thinks he can hear music somewhere, some melody that sounds like how Lucas’ hands feel on him, drifting under his t-shirt to stroke across his skin, leaving pockets of lighting in their wake.

He’s thinking about letting himself fall back into the sofa, letting Lucas climb on top of him and kiss him into another universe, but before he can Lucas is holding onto his hands, guiding Eliott forwards as he steps back, towards the hallway. Towards Eliott’s bedroom.

“I have supplies in my bag,” Lucas is saying, and Eliott shakes his head because he also has supplies, tucked into a drawer, waiting and waiting and waiting, but not anymore, because they’re stumbling into Eliott’s bedroom, kissing and giggling and unable to stop touching each other, like it’s the first time they’ve ever done this. It feels a bit like that for Eliott, like he’s a virgin again, so fucking excited and nervous to get naked with someone, but there’s also a familiarity that’s grounding, comforting.

It’s like they’re discovering each other again, when they already know each other so well. It’s blissful.

Eliott collapses onto the bed on his back, and there’s Lucas crawling over him, his eyes devouring Eliott inch by inch, so intensely Eliott feels the need to arch up into Lucas’ gaze like it’s a touch.

“Fuck,” Lucas whispers, straddling Eliott’s hips and staring down at him, his hand travelling from Eliott’s torso up to his neck, his thumb stroking across the base of his throat. “Fuck you’re unbelievable.” He kisses Eliott before he can say anything, fingers digging into his throat and Eliott is moaning into his mouth, wrapping his arms tightly around Lucas’ shoulders to tug him down, to get them as close as he possibly can, and even that doesn’t feel like enough, too many layers between them, the inconvenience of existing within flesh and blood when Eliott wants to touch his fucking _soul_ —

“I need to get you naked.” Lucas is yanking Eliott’s shirt up his stomach and Eliott sits up enough to take it off, tossing it onto the floor and Lucas is already working on his sweats and briefs, throwing those over his shoulder once they’re off, and he’s sinking down between Eliott’s legs, sliding his forearms under his knees and Eliott falls back to the mattress, his arms landing around his head and a gasp punching out of his chest when Lucas bites down on his inner thigh, then soothes the hurt with his tongue.

He mouths a trail of bites down Eliott’s thigh, leaving behind bruises that Eliott will delight in finding a few days from now, knowing that every time he presses his finger into one, and feels the brief, dizzying pain, then he’ll be brought right back to his moment, with Lucas’ head bobbing between his thighs, his hands stroking across his stomach, pressing his hips down into the bed, his mouth so soft and warm and perfect that Eliott knows he won’t last long, really won’t if Lucas keeps going, and he’s going to try and say something about it, to tell Lucas he doesn’t want to come until he’s inside of him, but Lucas seems to sense his impending orgasm, and he backs off, kissing over to the creases between Eliott’s hips and thighs, then drifting down, shifting Eliott’s knees onto his shoulders.

“How thorough was your shower today?” He asks, and Eliott’s nearly panting, half-wild with desire, held so securely under Lucas’ hands.

“Very,” he manages to gasp out, “thorough.”

Lucas whispers _fuck yes_ under his breath and then, louder, “Fuck, you’re so good for me,” and that, _that_ makes Eliott reach back to grip onto the headboard, his chest heaving by the time Lucas actually gets his mouth on him, and then it’s nothing but stars.

Nothing but Lucas’ hands and Lucas’ mouth and the cheap wood of his headboard digging into his palms and his own moans, loud and unchecked and euphoric, and stars, nothing but stars beneath Eliott’s lids.

_Lucas — III_

If it were up to Lucas, he’d spend the whole night here, buried between Eliott’s thighs, licking into him, listening to his moans, to his little gasps of, _Lucas. Lucas please._

He tastes so good. He feels so good, turning to liquid underneath Lucas’ hands, so sweet that Lucas might cry, or he might faint, or he might come just from this, just from making Eliott feel this good, from Eliott overwhelming every one of his senses, from the slow grind of his own hips into Eliott’s mattress, still in his sweatpants.

“Lucas.” Eliott says, a bit more clearly, and Lucas pulls back, peering up Eliott’s body to his face, and his hips stutter against the mattress when he does.

Eliott’s hair is a wild mess, like he’s been running his own hands through it. His cheeks are flushed and his lips are bitten and his eyes are glassy, and Lucas can’t believe that he did that. He’s the one who made Eliott look like that.

“Lucas, _please_.” Eliott whines, and Lucas knows what he’s asking, but he still wants to check, wants to make sure that Eliott’s okay, and he gets a pillow to the face for his troubles.

Despite what everyone seems to think Lucas can actually take a hint, so he steps off of the bed, awkwardly adjusting the front of his sweatpants, then realizing he shouldn’t even be wearing them anymore and he strips down, throwing a shaky smirk over his shoulder when Eliott wolf whistles.

“Top drawer on the left,” Eliott tells him, and there it all is, lube and at least three different types of condoms, which Lucas definitely wants to make fun of him for later, but right now he has priorities, and he has Eliott naked, laid out and desperate, so he kneels back into the bed, dropping the supplies to the surface and planting his hands on either side of Eliott’s hips, cocking his head to the side as he looks down at him, his eyes roaming across bare skin indulgently.

“What?” Eliott asks on a giggle, his arms flat above his head, his fingers digging into the mattress beneath him.

“Nothing,” Lucas says with a smile, smoothing a hand over Eliott’s bent knee. He leans down to press a feather-light kiss to the crest of it. “Was just thinking of how beautiful you are.”

Even in the dim light, Lucas can see how Eliott blushes. “Shut up.”

“No.” Lucas presses another kiss to his knee. “I won’t stop telling you. Ever.”

There’s a pause, and then Eliott’s voice is very, very quiet to say, “Thank you.”

Lucas props his chin up on his knee, stroking a gentle finger down his shin. “I know you don’t always believe me when I say it, so. I’m going to keep telling you. Because it’s always true for me. Inside and out, you’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever met.” He grins, and presses it into Eliott’s skin. “And the coolest.”

Eliott laughs, but it’s watery, trembling, and he says, “You too. You don’t always believe it when I say it.” He stretches a hand forward to card his fingers through Lucas’ hair, drum across his neck, smooth over his cheeks, his lips. “But I’ve always meant it, too. Right from that first night.”

Their eyes meet again and they’re both thinking about it, colliding on a dance floor and melting into one entity inside of a dimly-lit bathroom, sharing a joint in front of a neon heart and staying up nearly all night, so desperate to keep talking, to keep touching and kissing.

“Well.” Lucas says, “looks like we’ll need to keep telling each other.”

“Forever,” Eliott says, and his eyes widen a little like he didn’t mean to say that, but he doesn’t take it back, he just lets the word fall between them like a sunshower. Unexpected. Breathtaking.

“Forever,” Lucas agrees, and Eliott pulls him up by the arm so Lucas goes, sinking into him and they both sigh at it, the feeling of skin against skin, and that’s better but they both need more, so Lucas opens the lube onto his fingers and Eliott moans into his mouth, his arms tight around Lucas’ neck to keep him close, even when Lucas gets the condom on and is settling between Eliott’s legs, panting into his shoulder, moving in tiny increments that have them both shaking. Eliott keeps him close so they can kiss, and kiss, and so Lucas can tell him that he’s perfect, tell him that he’s beautiful, that he’s so good for Lucas, it’s like he’s made for him, and right before he knows Eliott is about to come, when his face is open and his body is shaking a little, Lucas can tell him he loves him, and watch as that tips him over the edge, which in turns sends Lucas free-falling into oblivion, and he’s collapsing on top of Eliott, both of them panting, as close as two people can be, and it’s like they’re sharing a heartbeat, like they’re not Lucas and Eliott but—

_Lucas &Eliott — I_

They collapse onto their backs, laughing when they’re not short of breath and becoming short of breath when they laugh. They laugh because they’re sweaty, they laugh because they’re tired, they laugh because they just orgasmed, they laugh because they’re in love, they laugh because they’re happy, so happy it’s euphoric, a sheen of iridescent rose that clings to their skin, that look that always lets the entire universe know that two people are lovers, that through space and time they managed to find one another, and to create a moment of perfect bliss between moonrise and moonset, and so now they laugh, because they don’t know what else to do with this happiness, other than let it overflow from their bodies into the universe.

(This is how the world became built on love.)

They lie on their backs, sweaty and laughing and touching at the elbow, and one of them suggests a shower but the other turns it down, cites laziness, and that’s good enough for both of them, so they drift together, uncaring of sticky skin and they close their eyes to every world but their own, now, letting the night blanket them and letting their hearts slow to a steady, calm beat, a single pulse in the night, like a lighthouse in the great starry sea.

_I love you._

_I love you._

_I love you._

_Eliott — IV_

Eliott Demaury is dreaming.

Or is it a nightmare?

He’s in the middle of the ocean, on a deep blue sea underneath a grey sky, and he’s looking around but there’s nothing, no boats and no people and nowhere for him to go, just blue as far as the horizon, and he’s treading water but he can feel himself getting tired, he’s scared he’s going to slip under, he’s scared, he’s really really scared.

But then there’s movement in the low waves, and Eliott sees a head pop out of the water and it’s strange because it’s Lucas, but also not strange because it’s Lucas, and he’s swimming towards Eliott with a wide smile on his face, and he’s so beautiful, his eyes more blue than the ocean, his skin tan and soft-looking, water droplets rolling off of his bare shoulders like diamonds.

Eliott is so happy to see him, so relieved, but then Lucas reaches him and he realizes that they’re stuck there together, there’s nowhere they can go, _I don’t know what to do I don’t know what to do_ , but Lucas is there, and he’s still smiling. Eliott, what are you doing up here? Come down with me, come down.

Eliott is confused. What does he mean, this beautiful Lucas in the middle of the sea with his eyes of endless depths. Is he trying to kill Eliott? To drown him? _You could, if you wanted to. You could._

Eliott, come down, come with me. Lucas is touching him, tugging on his hand and the water might be freezing but Lucas’ skin is warm and Eliott wants to touch him everywhere wants to float together like an iceberg like bubbles on bathwater they will just float and touch, touch, touch, only there is the tugging, real and warm and the smile and the endless eyes are asking him to dive down. What are you doing up here, Eliott?

It was not a question of _if_ it was a question of _when_ and Eliott opens wide and fills his lungs and then plunges beneath the surface and he sees Lucas’ body turning down and he follows him and it’s dark at first, Eliott doesn’t know where they’re going but he’s not scared if he keeps his eyes on Lucas, and Lucas turns back and he waves Eliott on and they hit a rocky bottom but they swim over it, and the bottom falls away not to darkness, but to light. There’s brilliant bio-luminesce neon corals and bright algae and pink octopi dancing together along the sand and purple fish swimming in circles and a bright blue shark rolling in joyful circles in the water. It’s all so much colour and life it’s overwhelming gloriously overwhelming. Eliott has never seen anything like this, he doesn’t think, but maybe he has because Lucas is there with him his warm skin and endless eyes that are bright down here, reflecting every colour back to Eliott. He’s there and he’s the most beautiful thing Eliott has ever seen everything right now is the most beautiful thing Eliott has ever seen is this what was beneath murky waters is this life is this a dream is this where every story ever told comes from and Lucas is here. Lucas is here.

I told you. I told you there was nothing to be scared of.

What were you doing up there, Eliott?

___

Eliott wakes up and it’s bright and sunny outside. It’s another clear January day but he thinks he can still taste saltwater between his teeth.

The edges of his dream are softening but he tries to hold onto them, tries to remember every colour he saw, every strange shape of life down in the depths of the sea. He thinks, _I have to draw it_ , so he does, rolling out of bed and going to his desk, tearing a fresh page out of his sketchbook. He reaches for his pencil at first, then frowns, and instead dives into the right-hand drawer, pushing around papers and erasers until he finds the pack of expensive pencil crayons his mom got him a year ago. Never opened until now.

He starts with colour, because that’s the most he remembers of the dream now, the vivid hues cutting through dark, heavy water, so bright it was like standing in Times Square. He sketches quickly, guessing on the some of the shapes he can’t remember but switching rapidly between colours, pressing down firmly into the page to make them bold, mixing them together when he can’t find one that matches, huffing in frustration when even that doesn’t work.

He only stops when he runs out of room, the page so filled with colour there’s barely any white left. Eliott sits back in his desk chair and he stretches out his neck, smiling down at the page, at the whimsy and ridiculousness of it. He can’t remember the last time he sketched something he liked so much. Something that’s completely imperfect, but he loves anyway.

There’s the sound of rustling sheets behind him, a body turning over in sleep, a small sigh being pressed into a pillow, and Eliott turns to it, towards the small lump taking up more than half of his bed, a spiky head poking out of the covers. The sight of him there, still so peacefully asleep, makes his heart blush, curling up inside of his chest in happiness.

His phone tells him that it’s nearly eight, so Eliott quietly pads out to the kitchen, pouring some ground coffee into a press and popping some leftover croissants from Sofiane’s pre-midterm stress baking into the oven to warm. He sees some strawberries in the fridge, and a jar of mustard on one of the shelves, and he thinks about experimenting a little, the desire to create still thrumming under his skin, but he also wants to make a good breakfast for Lucas, something that is guaranteed to be edible, so he leaves it, and instead slices up some of the strawberries into a bowl.

He uses a baking sheet as a tray, and carries everything back into the bedroom carefully, not wanting to spill anything but also not wanting to wake Lucas, who’s still buried deep beneath the duvet. Eliott sets the baking sheet down on his desk, right next to his dream drawing, and then he’s lifting up a corner of the duvet and sliding into the bed. At the feeling of his weight shifting on the mattress, Lucas groans and rolls into him, planting his face in Eliott’s chest.

“What the fuck,” Lucas grumbles. “You’re so cold. Why are you so cold?”

“I made breakfast,” Eliott says, smoothing a hand over Lucas’ hair. Lucas turns his head sideways to reveal one suspicious eye, and Eliott grins, pressing a kiss to his temple. “Just fruit and croissants, I promise. And coffee. Though I could get the mustard, if you want to make things interesting.”

“You’re so weird,” Lucas says, so fondly that it makes Eliott’s toes curl under the sheets.

“Do you want me to get the coffee?” He asks, sliding a hand down Lucas’ back, burying his nose in his hair and smelling his own shampoo.

“No.” Lucas yawns into his chest. “I mean, yes, I really want coffee. Just—” He wraps his arms low around Eliott’s waist, pulling them closer together. “Can we lie here, for a second?”

“Yeah,” Eliott says softly, brushing Lucas’ hair back from his face and tilting his head down to kiss him. “We can.” Lucas burrows back into his chest and Eliott wraps an arm around his shoulders, tracing patterns with his fingertips across Lucas’ skin, smiling when he touches a place that makes Lucas shiver.

He slowly writes out, _I love you._

“Hey.” He tucks his chin down to whisper into Lucas’ ear. “I had a dream about you last night.”

Lucas shifts against him, yawning like a lion. “Really? What was I doing?”

“Well, you…” _You brought me into a fairy tale. You reminded me of every bit of wonder that exists._ “You were a mermaid.”

Lucas laughs into Eliott’s shoulder. “Oh yeah?” He asks lowly, suggestion colouring his voice. “And was I wearing a seashell bikini?”

Eliott joins in with his laughter, dropping his chin to the top of Lucas’ head. “Nope.”

“Oh. Well that’s a bit lame. And who were you? Some grizzled, weathered sea captain with a mysterious backstory?”

“No.” Eliott says quietly. He traces a heart, a star, and a shark into Lucas’ skin. “I thought I was drowning. And you saved me.”

They go in opposite directions that day, Lucas towards the bookstore for a morning shift, and Eliott towards the studio for a day of staring at canvases and hoping he can make something of them.

He has his drawing from that morning tucked into his sketchbook. He’d thought about leaving it behind in his room, but then Lucas had found it while he was getting dressed, and he’d brought it over to where Eliott was lacing his boots up, plonking down on the mattress.

“When did you do this?” He asked excitedly,flapping the sheet in front of Eliott’s face. “It’s so fucking cool!”

“Oh, uh.” Eliott took the paper from him, rubbing his thumb over a corner where a neon green jellyfish floats. “This morning. Before you woke up.”

“I love it,” Lucas had said, entirely sincerely. He’d leaned his head onto Eliott’s shoulder, tracing his fingers across the page. “I don’t know what it is about it, but I love it. It feels really…alive, doesn’t it?” His finger stopped on the electric blue shark. “That is _fucking_ awesome.”

Staring down at the page with Lucas’ excited voice in his ear, Eliott had seen what he was talking about. There was a vibrancy in the picture that almost made it look like it was moving. It’s energy was so kinetic.

So he took it with him, as inspiration.

(Maybe one the of the great mysteries of the modern world is how dreams have the power to change everything.)

It’s quiet in the art building this early. Eliott has found that most of the students in his cohort tend to be night hawks, staying in the studios until dawn, bribing the security guards with gourmet snacks in order to keep the doors unlocked, or they prop them open with whatever they can find. Sometimes Eliott is that person, being hit with a rush of inspiration in the middle of the night, but lately he finds that he likes arriving in campus early, likes having the senior floor all to himself.

The studio he’s been working in is on the far side of the floor, tucked away behind the furnace room because he likes the peace, likes being away form any distractions. It might make him a diva, but he likes having an entire studio to himself.

He leaves the lights off when he first enters the room, the wide window on the far side giving enough light for him to toss his jacket onto a stool, drop his backpack to the floor, and survey the canvases lining the walls: some blank, some covered in paint, some only with a corner or a half completed. It’s the work that Eliott hasn’t been completely satisfied by yet, the work that he keeps giving up on, because it doesn’t feel _right_. Everything he’s made so far for his thesis has felt so forced. It comes out artificial.

So it’s time to start fresh.

Eliott moves the old canvases away, propping them up against the window, and sets up a new one against the wall. He fills a bucket with water at the paint-splattered sink, gathers his brushes from where they were drying on a table, his paints from a corner of the room, and lines them up on the floor. He opens his laptop and starts playing a playlist of slow, ambient electronic music from Spotify. On a small easel, he lays down his essay outline, the margins filled with Kioni’s red-penned notes, and next to it, as a final touch, is the drawing from that morning.

 _Don’t get caught up in the perfectionism,_ Kioni said. _Just let yourself feel it._

So he does.

He gives himself a word from his essay, just one, and he stands in front of the canvas, his eyes roaming over every inch of it until he’s dipping his brush into the water, and it hovers over his paints until it dives down into the blue, a vivid, electric blue like the shark on his drawing and he cuts the canvas in half, a swift, sure movement that feels so natural for his arm to do, so he does it again, painting an identical curve underneath it, then he’s going back to his paints and returning with a lighter blue, and it’s like his arm is moving of its own accord, reaching up for the top left corner of the canvas, then travelling down to meet the curved slashes in the middle, and the light blue feels right, so he keeps going with it, to the top right corner, and then he’s going back to his paints for something, something, where did he…

He finds a bright white with a blue tinge and brings that over, adding small touches of it all over the canvas, some that look like dots and some that look like they could be something, but then turn into nothing, but then into something. He finishes with the white and reaches for the blue but stops himself, instead returns to his paints and mixes colours together in a pan until he has a soft, sunrise peach, and he returns to the canvas with his hands soaked with it and his brush dripping with it, and whatever song is playing at the moment is good, has a slow, undercurrent of a beat that he moves to, flicking his wrist across the canvas, his right shoulder sore and straining.

Eliott steps back from the canvas and he’s shocked to see that the sun is high in the sky, that it must be nearing noon, and he realizes that he’s been working non-stop for hours. He takes a deep inhale, and when he lets it out, he cuts his eyes over to his canvas.

And he laughs.

He breaks only to eat something early in the afternoon, popping down to the small café in the bottom of the art building, a gloriously cheap place that sells excellent food and questionable coffee, and Eliott asks for both when he gets down there, blushing when the middle-aged woman behind the counter gives him a free cookie because, _You are by far the sweetest customer I’ve had today. And the most handsome._

He gets a text from Lucas on the way back to the studio, telling him that work was long but class is longer, and wondering if Eliott is still okay with Lucas coming to the art building to meet him at four-thirty when he’s finished.

 **_just let me know if you’re in the art zone or something - i don’t wanna mess up your flow_ ** ****

_the art zone lol_

_don’t worry about that. i’ve had a productive morning, i don’t think i’ll be doing much else today_

He feels every inch the stereotype of the art student that day, working in a violent burst of activity, then feeling too drained to do anything else other than eat, drink black coffee, and spend a few hours staring out of the window and aimlessly browsing around the Internet.

 **_okay, if you’re sure_ ** ****

_i’m sure. i’ll see you later baby_ 🧡

When Eliott reenters the room he’s almost surprised to see that the painting from that morning is still there. He had a brief moment of panic downstairs where he thought he might have hallucinated it, like a waking dream, and when he returned to the studio there would be only the silent judgement of a blank canvas and unused brushes.

But, no. The painting is still there, still drying against the wall, and Eliott wants to laugh all over again. It’s the first time he’s made a painting for this thesis that has felt so fucking right. It’s as though everything in the universe was lining up to make Eliott feel this way again, from his talk to Kioni, to his talk with Idriss and Sofiane, to him and Lucas talking about the future together, to the dream he had last night. After weeks of feeling lost, completely and utterly adrift, there he is, staring at a painting he created, in the way he used to create before he began his thesis: easily and confidently, like every inch of his being is dying to get this painting out into the world.

He wasn’t sure he was going to be able to create like that, when he wasn’t creating something to do with his mental illness. But he can. He did. The relief is so strong, so overwhelming that he could cry.

He spends the next few hours cleaning up the studio, washing his brushes and paint tins in the sink, laying everything out to dry and and lowering all of the blinds in the room, so his painting won’t fade away from the bright sun.

Then he starts a new playlist on his laptop, looks up a book his mom mentioned she wanted for her birthday next month, reads and re-reads the program description for the MFA at Beaux-Arts, then drifts back to his sketchbook sitting in his backpack, his fingers itching once again to produce something, to put pencil to paper.

He doodles mindlessly on a blank page: an eye in one corner, a pair of hands in another, a shattered crystal ball in the centre. Then he’s hit with sudden inspiration, and flips to another new page. He starts with a naked upper body, compact and strong, with a head of wild hair atop of it. He laughs softly to himself as he adds scales to a long, thick tail, a school of fish passing by, a shark just overhead, and a seashell bikini top, just for good measure.

He gets so lost in the drawing that he nearly misses the text from Lucas telling him that he’s just left class, and Eliott scrambles to pack everything back into his bag, flicking the lights off and getting one last look at his canvas before closing the door.

By now, so late in the afternoon, the hallways are filled with students. Everyone Eliott sees has paint stains or varnish stains or clay stains somewhere on their clothes. They all look rushed, brushing by Eliott with only a polite nod, carrying a tin of paint or a pile of felt or, interestingly enough, an Ikea bag full of wood shavings. A few of them nod or say hello to Eliott as they pass, but they’re focused, all of them, wearing the sort of thousand-yard-stare that is only ever seen on cowboys in American films, and university students watching the steady approach of a deadline.

He’s responding to Lucas in the stairwell, telling him that he’ll meet him outside, when his shoulder knocks into someone else’s and he stumbles back, an apology already making it’s way out of his lips when his eyes lock on Lucille’s.

“Oh.” Eliott says at the exact same time Lucille says it, and there’s an uncomfortable beat as they both take a step back to let another student pass by them.

“Eliott,” Lucille says after a moment, stilted but sincere, a small smile on her face. “How are you? How’s your thesis going?”

“Ah, yeah.” Eliott scratches at the back of his head, shrugging. “It’s okay. I mean, it hasn’t really been okay lately but today I think I had a breakthrough, so.” He shrugs again. He can feel the awkwardness hanging between them, it’s weight heavy with history, with the few months they spent together in first year, brief but tumultuous, beginning with Eliott feeling like he was more in love that he’d ever been, and ending with him sitting on the floor of his bathroom, ashamed and alone.

Lucille’s eyes widen. “Did you? Eliott, that’s great!”

Eliott nods sheepishly, tucking his hands into his pockets. “Yeah, yeah. I hope I can keep the momentum going you know?”

“I’m sure you will.”

They haven’t really talked since then, since they ended things. Not properly, which is actually not that hard to do, even when you’re in such a small program. They made a truce, of sorts, where they wouldn’t go out of their own way to seek each other out, but they would be pleasant and supportive if they ever did run into each other.

It’s sad, to become a stranger to someone you were once so close to. Eliott barely knows what to say to her, now.

“And you?” He asks. “How’s your thesis?”

Lucille tucks a strand of hair behind one ear. “It’s going really well, actually. I’m nearly done.”

“Oh.” Eliott blinks at her. “Well, that’s. That’s great.”

Lucille waves a hand out between them. “You know what I’m like during big projects like this. I always wind up finishing really early, and then wanting to change everything by the due date.”

Eliott does know this. When they were still together during first year, he’d seen how caught up Lucille would get in her projects, in a way that was no different from Eliott except for how methodical it was. Eliott has never met anyone who can produce quality work on command like Lucille can. Who never, ever deviates from her schedule.

Eliott just says, “I know,” and they both nod, smiling awkwardly down at their feet. The silence lingers a touch too long, and Eliott is all too aware of the fact that Lucas must be at the front doors by now, so he shrugs his backpack higher onto his shoulder and starts to make his escape, but Lucille cuts him off before he can.

“Eliott, listen.” She takes a step towards him, a travel coffee mug held tightly in her hands, her face sombre. “I just wanted to say that, um. Well, I. I wanted to apologize..”

Eliott stares at her.

“I ran into him outside of the bar, you know. On that day.”

She doesn’t have to say who, and she doesn’t have to say what day.

Eliott swallows at the mention of that day, which he barely remembers at all. The shape of the memory is vague and unfocused to him, but the memory of the next morning, the morning when he broke up with Lucas, is too clear and precise in his mind. Opening up one usually means opening up the other.

“I saw him as I was leaving, and he was heading inside with an expression on his face like he, god, like he was going to storm the place, or something. So, I…” She trails off, her brows furrowing together as she cuts her eyes to the side, away from Eliott’s gaze. “I talked to him. I told him that he should consider giving you space. That if he went in there, you were going to see it like he was acting as your babysitter, not your boyfriend.”

Shame pools in Eliott’s veins. He hates that after all this time, Lucille was completely right about that. “Well, I did, so. Maybe he should have listened to you, and maybe then we wouldn’t have fought like we did.” _Maybe I wouldn’t have fucked it all up_ , he doesn’t say.

But Lucille is shaking her head, earnestly, taking another step towards Eliott. “Do you know what he said to me, after that? He said that if it was him, if your roles were reversed, he would be happy to know that you were looking for him, and that you were worried for him. And Eliott honestly,” she gives a small laugh, “he was kind of a dick, but he was also so…passionate. I never would have expected that from how quiet he was at the gallery. I was reluctantly impressed by it.”

Eliott can’t stop the smile he makes in return. “Lucas is an impressive person,” he tells her, and the shame in his veins is slowly being replaced by something else that feels lighter, but more powerful.

“I’m beginning to realize that,” Lucille says with a quirk of her brow. “But Eliott, I really did want to apologize for that. It wasn’t my place to say anything. We haven’t been close for years, and Lucas was right. I don’t know anything about what it’s like between you two. So, I’m sorry.”

“You should probably tell Lucas that,” Eliott says at length, and Lucille nods.

“I want to, but there was also something else I wanted to apologize for.” A group of girls burst out of the doors next to them, bounding down the stairs in a flurry of excited conversation and Lucille takes a deep breath as they pass, waiting until they’ve disappeared out of another set of doors. “I’m sorry for how it ended between us,” she says. “It was my fault. I wasn’t ready for any kind of relationship at all, but I especially wasn’t ready for you.”

It stings, to hear her say that, _for you_ , like Eliott is a person who comes with complicated instructions, but at the same time he knows that there’s ring of truth to it, that they weren’t right for each other, that they were both too selfish to try and understand one another.

“Eliott, what I’m trying to say is you deserve someone like Lucas. Someone who really, really loves you. And looks out for you not because he has to, but because he wants to. I could never have been that person for you. I hurt you. I let you think you were a burden to me, and for that I am so sorry Eliott, because you’re not a burden. I was just too self-absorbed to let anyone else into my life.” Her eyes turn fierce, locking onto Eliott’s. “I’m not expecting your forgiveness or anything, that’s not what this was about. I just wanted too tell you. You deserve to be happy.”

She stops talking, just like that, and they stare at each other for a moment, until they realize they’re both crying a little and they laugh, wiping at their cheeks.

“Fuck,” Eliott mutters, scrubbing his hands over his face. _Fuck_. Out of all the ways he expected a conversation with Lucille to go, he never would have expected an apology, not when he’s gone around for so long thinking that he’s the ticking time bomb who ruins every relationship.

There’s a part of him that want to be angry at her, for how things ended between them, and how long it took her to say this to him, but he also remembers what he was like when they first got together, impulsive and stubborn, not willing to listen to anything except what he wanted to hear.

Yeah, Lucille hurt him. She was the start of Eliott believing he would never find someone to love him because of the way he is, but she also wasn’t the only reason, and Eliott wasn’t the only one who got hurt.

“Thank you,” he says finally, meeting her eyes again. “I know that couldn’t have been easy to say, so. Thank you. And I’m sorry for hurting you too.”

Lucille waves him off. “It’s fine. We were young, and really pretentious.” Eliott snorts, and she grins. “It was never meant to work between us.”

“But, how, uh…” Eliott bounces onto his toes, searching for the name to the face he’s seen with Lucille at a few events. “How’s it going with…Viktor? Is that his name?”

“That is his name,” Lucille says with a laugh, “and it’s going just fine with him, thank you.”

“That’s good.” Eliott nods, and he means it. “You deserve to be happy too.”

Lucille clumsily pats him on the cheek. “Thanks.” Then she takes a large step back, letting out another long breath and they both laugh again, shedding their nerves in giddy bursts of air, and Lucille points back up to the senior floor. “Alright, I’ve got to, uh. I’ve got some work to do.”

“Yeah.” Eliott agrees, pointing down towards the ground floor. “I’m meeting Lucas.”

“Oh. Tell him I said hi.”

Eliott has no idea how Lucas would react to something like that. It could be entertaining to witness. “Sure. I’ll do that.”

“Okay.” Lucilles waves at him inelegantly before turning onto the steps towards the senior floor, and Eliott goes the other way, shrugging his backpack higher onto his shoulder and bouncing down the steps, feeling utterly weightless.

Eliott hadn’t realized how long he’d needed to hear those words from Lucille for.

_You’re not a burden._

_You deserve to be happy._

As he nears the entrance, he thinks he can see Lucas through the glass, pacing in front of the steps and looking down at his phone. The sun is beginning to set, another early night in January, and the sky is a faint orange today, kissing Lucas’ cheekbones and the tips of his hair with citrus. It’s like the bottom of the ocean all over again. Everything around Eliott is so touched with wonder, with impossibility that he feels like he’s fallen back into the dream.

But it’s not a dream, because Eliott is pushing open the door, and Lucas glances up at the sound, turning on the spot and he’s smiling, his eyes glittering in the low light because he’s waiting for Eliott. And it’s all real.

Eliott bounds down the last of the steps towards Lucas, his heart as light as air itself, as expansive as the sunset sky, and he throws himself into Lucas’ arms, leans down for a kiss he’s been craving all afternoon, and it’s not a dream. Eliott isn’t diving down to the depths of the ocean to discover a new world. He’s not a king, lounging in a sun-kissed field with sun-kissed eyelids.

Not a king, just a boy. A boy who lives inside of his own head.

Not a king, but an artist. A creator. A dreamer.

Not a king, but Lucas loves him. So he feels like one.

_Lucas — IV_

Lucas Lallemant is daydreaming.

In class, like he tends to do when the professor’s voice and the hum of the fluorescent lights become a single wall of white noise, and Lucas is still taking notes, hands flying across his keyboard, but his mind is drifting, drifting like he’s on a sea, because he is on a sea. He’s on a ship over vast blue water and Eliott’s behind him like _Titanic_ , holding onto his waist and pressing their cheeks together.

_Do you trust me?_

_I trust you._

Except it’s not at all like _Titanic_ , which is good because Lucas didn’t actually like that film much, thought it was too long and too sad, and it doesn’t matter because this isn’t _Titanic_ , this is him and Eliott on a boat, grey sun and salt-rusted iron holding them back from the bright blue water. It’s so sunny out the sky is the same colour as Eliott’s eyes, light light lightest brightest blue and on the horizon that sky meets the sea into an endless blur of monochrome, and it would be scary, maybe, to look around and not see anything but blue, and maybe it is, but Eliott is pressing a kiss to his cheek and then he gasps, as they watch a blue whale crest over the low waves, huge and magnificent, turning onto it’s back to crash back into the water, one flipper fanning out almost like it’s saying hello to them.

And a part of Lucas outside of the daydream is realizing he’s officially spent too much time looking at marine biology courses online, but the part that’s on the front of the boat, with Eliott behind him and the vast sea in front of him, with all of its magic and frightening unknowability, wants to live inside of a moment like this forever.

The whale’s tail slaps against the water as it submerges, sending a spray of salty water onto the ship, and Lucas watches the tail disappear beneath the fathomless blue, and he wants to dive down to follow it, wants to see every corner of that whale’s world. Wants to jump into the unknown and make a home for himself at the bottom of it.

Eliott is pressing a salty kiss to his cheek and he whispers in Lucas’ ear, _How do you feel, Lucas? Are you scared?_

Lucas lets out a laugh, as wild and untamed as the sea itself, and lets it get carried away on the wind.

He feels so alive.

___

Lucas leaves class in a rush, haphazardly packing his bag and shaking his head when Celine asks if he’s joining her and Imane for lunch that day.

“Can’t,” he says, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. “I’m meeting my mom.”

It’s a regular occurrence now, meeting his mom for lunch or for coffee, sometimes dropping by her apartment to bring her flowers or just to sit at her kitchen counter and talk. Just like anything else, there are good days and bad days, days when his mom barely talks and days when he can barely fit a word in to her monologuing. There are days when Lucas gets frustrated and says something cruel, and days when Lucas doesn’t have the energy to talk. But no matter what, Lucas keeps coming back, and they keep trying.

He takes the metro a few stops over to the restaurant his mom chose, a trendy little place tucked between a flower shop and an art store on a busy side street. Lucas pauses at the door of the art store, gazing through the glass to all of the paints and canvases and brushes inside, and he thinks about getting something for Eliott, something nice, but he realizes he would have no idea what to get him. He doesn’t know much about how Eliott makes his art.

It makes him wonder if he should start asking about it.

He’s pulled from his thoughts by his mom, who’s seated at a window table inside the restaurant and is waving at Lucas with both hands. Lucas smiles, and heads inside.

“My sweet boy,” his mom says happily when he gets to the table, pulling him into a tight hug.

“Hi mama,” Lucas murmurs into her shoulder. Her sweater is soft against his cheek and she smells like roses. She’s always smelt like roses. It makes Lucas hold on a little tighter.

“How are you, darling?” She pulls back to examine his face, running her fingers down his cheek. “Still as handsome as ever, I see.” She frowns, and smoothes a lock of hair off of his forehead. “Though you could do with a haircut.”

Lucas laughs, his own hand going to his head. “Yeah, I know.”

There’s bread and sparkling water already on the table, and as Lucas peruses the menu, biting his lip when he sees the prices, his mom lays a hand flat between them.

“I see that look,” she says with a smile. “Don’t worry. It’s my treat, Lucas. Order whatever you want.”

“No, I can’t—”

“You can. Because I’m your mother and I say so.” She tilts her head, and her mouth takes on a sad tilt. “I can’t do much to take care of you,” she murmurs, “but I can do this. So, let me do this.”

Lucas nods, and his own eyes are wet when he blinks down at his menu.

It feels like all he does is cry lately. Crying from stress, crying from happiness, crying just from being alive. It's all too painful and too wonderful. He takes a shaky breath.

“Okay. Then I’m having the chicken burger _and_ their fancy frites.”

His mom grins. “That’s my Lucas.”

After the server comes by to take the orders and refill their water, his mom plants her elbows on the table, her eyes warm when she looks at him. “So what were you looking for at that art store? Thinking of becoming a sculptor?”

Lucas snorts into his water. “No, definitely not. I was just,” he lifts a shoulder, “thinking about getting something for my boyfriend.”

There’s a flicker of recognition in his mom’s eyes. Her smile widens. “Eliott,” she says, “right?”

Lucas nods, biting down on his lip, his cheeks warm. Lucas hasn’t told her much about him yet, in fact, has only just recently mentioned that he’s dating someone, much to his mom’s delight. He was nervous to tell her, not because he was scared of how she would react but because they were new, all over again. They had just gotten back together and things were tentative between them. Lucas was trying to nurture their relationship like a baby bird, keeping it safe and warm and away from the outside world. Even from his mom.

The day he told her, he went over to Eliott’s, stood at the edge of his bed, and said, _So._ _I told my mom about us. What do you think about that?_

Eliott had tackled him to the mattress.

“Yeah,” he says now, tearing what’s left of the bread crust on his plate into small pieces. “Eliott.”

“Ah, that’s right.” His mom’s eyes are practically twinkling. “You said he’s an artist.”

“He’s really talented,” Lucas finds himself saying, “but he’s also so hard on himself. He’s working on his senior project right now, and it’s taking a lot out of him, and I mean, I don’t know anything about art, so I wouldn’t know how to help him, but I just want to do something nice for him, to ease his stress a little.”

“I’m sure he knows you’re there for him.”

“Yeah, but…” Lucas shakes his head, wiping bread crumbs off of his fingers. “I want to do something.”

His mom drops her chin into her hand. “You really care about him, don’t you?”

“Mama, I—” _I love him_ , he wants to say. _I think he really might be the person for me_. And he looks across the table at her, at the look on her face, anticipation and happiness and mischievousness all wrapped into one like she already knows what he’s about to say, and she can’t wait to hear him say it.

So he says it. “I’m in love with him.”

She smiles, and it’s the exact same smile Lucas has, wide and teasing, but with a touch of softness at the corners. “And is he in love with you?”

“Yeah.” Lucas thinks to back to just last night, after he’d met Eliott outside of his building after class, after Eliott had come bouncing down the steps and had kissed Lucas beneath the sunset sky and offered him a cookie to share on the walk, they’d gone back to Lucas’ to cook dinner, and while Lucas was frying vegetables in a pan, Eliott had come up behind him and wrapped his arms around his middle, gently pulling Lucas back into his chest.

 _Hey,_ Eliott had said, dipping down to kiss the spot just below his ear. _Guess what._

Lucas had rolled his eyes, but he’d played along. _What?_

_I love you._

“He loves me,” he tells his mom, watching as she blinks and her eyes grow wet, and Lucas feels matching tears gathering in the corners of his eyes, again, _fucking hell again_ , but he lets them come because Eliott loves him. Eliott tells him all the time, and shows him with every touch and Lucas, he. He’s really starting to believe it.

“You don’t know,” his mom says, and she wipes away a tear that escapes down her cheek towards her chin. “You don’t know how happy that makes me, Lucas.” She takes Lucas’ hand in her own, her skin cool and soft, and she squeezes their fingers together. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted for you, you know. For you to be happy, and to feel loved.”

“He makes me really happy,” Lucas tells her, squeezing her fingers in return. Then, buoyed by the weightlessness of his own happiness, he says, “There’s something else.”

His mom narrows her eyes. “Tell me you’re not planning on eloping.”

“What?” Lucas squawks, eyes wide. “No! No, no, no, no. That’s not—” He bursts into nervous laughter, his mind stuck on a loop of _marriage, marriage_ but his mouth managing to say, “No, _no_ , this is something about school.”

“Oh.” She lets out a breath, leaning back in her chair. “Okay, good.” She laughs as well, cupping her hands around her cheeks. “I’m sorry, honey, I don’t know why that was the first place my mind went to.”

Lucas’ face is burning. “No, it’s fine. I mean, just so you know we’re not planning, like, anything like _that_ at all, we’re just, uh…we’re still trying to figure our lives out right now, which actually relates to…what I want to say…” He squints up at her, then says the next part in one long rush. “I’m not going to medical school. I know it’s what you two have always wanted for me, especially dad, but I don’t want to go. I’m not passionate about it, and I don’t want to commit all of that money and years of my life to something I have no drive to do. I’m still going to finish my degree, but right now, I’m looking into other options. I actually think I’d want to…” He licks his lips. He hasn’t even said this aloud to Yann or Eliott yet. “I think I’d want to do something with animals, actually. I’ve been reading up on marine biology a lot lately.”

Lucas stops, and there’s complete silence at the table. He stares down hard at the napkin in his lap, and suddenly it’s like he’s a child again, waiting to be disciplined at the kitchen table, and he can’t look up, he _can’t_ , but then his mom is gently saying his name, gently calling back.

“Lucas,” she says, and he looks up, and her eyes are still teary, but there’s something else in them, something that he’s too nervous to name. “Lucas,” she says, and she’s reaching forward, taking his hand back into her. “I meant what I said earlier. All I want is for you to be happy, okay? That’s all there is. Your father,” she sighs and briefly shuts her eyes. “Your father is tough. He’s always put so much on you, and I’ve seen how that pressure has affected you. I’ve seen it, and I hate it. I hate how I wasn’t able to help you carry any of that.” She’s holding his hand tightly, and her face is fierce in its expression, and Lucas thinks that thing he couldn’t name earlier might be…pride. “I will deal with him,” she says. “I will. All you have to do is focus on school. Find something new to be passionate about. Find the thing that makes you feel alive.”

Lucas is nodding. At that moment, his love for her, his mother who has been through so much, and has come through her darkest times as fierce and loving as she’s always been, feels like it’s almost too much for his body to contain. “I will do that,” he tells her, and he means it.

“I’m so proud of you,” she whispers. “I don’t tell you enough, but I am. You’re so brave, Lucas and you have so much space in your heart, for everyone you know. I used to worry about it, when you were younger, that you would lose all of that love, all of that space inside of you, but you haven’t. You’ve held onto it.” With her free hand, she smoothes his stubborn strand of hair back off of his forehead. “And in this world, that’s not an easy thing to do.” She sighs, smiling when the strand of hair falls back onto his forehead. “I love you, darling. So much.”

“I love you too,” Lucas says softly.

They stay like that, smiling at each other, until there’s an awkward cough at their side, and their server is standing there, holding a steaming bowl in their hands.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” they say sheepishly, eyes shifting between Lucas and his mom. They hold up the bowl like a peace offering. “But I’ve brought the frites.”

Lucas has to go back to campus after lunch, to finish up some work in the library, but he leaves his mom reluctantly, leaning into the kiss she presses to his forehead.

“Tell Eliott I said hello,” she orders, smoothing away Lucas’ stubborn strand of hair one more time.

Lucas grins. “I will.”

“You know, I’d like to meet him sometime,” she says, voice washed with tentative hope. “But it doesn’t have to be now. It can be whenever you’re ready.”

“No, I—I think he’d like that,” Lucas says softly. “I’d like that.” He imagines about Eliott being nervous and sweet the entire time, probably bringing flowers and wearing his favourite button-down. He thinks of his mom, who would probably tease Eliott a little, but be so kind to him, so full of understanding. He thinks they would like each other.

They part in opposite directions, his mom walking back to her apartment and Lucas heading back towards the metro, and as he passes by the art store again, his eyes linger on their Valentine’s Day window display: a collection of small papier maché animals paired off into twos, all coloured in shades of red and pink. There’s one pair in the middle that makes Lucas stop in his tracks, and makes him bust into uncontrollable laughter because, _What are the chances?_

He takes a picture of it for his Instagram story, of the pink-and-red papier maché raccoon and the pink-and-red papier maché hedgehog touching their tiny noses together, their paws down flat at their sides. He tags Eliott as the raccoon.

It’s getting dark by the time he gets home from the library, the blue hour between the last of the light and the first of the dark, and Lucas is tired. He’s drained from his emotional talk with his mom, with all of the emotional talks he seems to be having with everyone lately. His neck is aching from being bent over his laptop and his textbooks for hours, his hands freezing from the library’s poor insulation.

Yann had texted asking if Lucas wanted to go with him to Arthur’s place for some wine and video games, but Lucas had said no, wanting nothing more than to slip into his baggiest, most comfortable sweats, order a pizza, and fall asleep by ten. He knew Eliott was working at the café that evening, was probably closing, which meant he wouldn’t get out until late, so Lucas was all set for his quiet, solo Friday night.

That’s why it’s surprising when he turns the corner onto his block and sees Eliott waiting by his front door. The hood of his coat is drawn up, and there’s a canvas bag filled with groceries at his feet, but Lucas can tell it’s him just from his posture alone, the slope of his shoulders and the bend of his longs legs.

Lucas bounds over to him, his excitement banishes the cold and exhaustion from his body. He jumps onto Eliott from the side, his arms locking around his shoulders, and Eliott lets out a shout, nearly stumbling into the street from Lucas’ weight. His hood falls back from his face and he’s staring down at Lucas, confusion melting into affection, and his arms are going around Lucas’ waist and he nearly trips over his own grocery bag as he tries to set him down again.

“Hi.” Eliott says brightly when Lucas’ heels are back on the pavement, smoothing his hands up Lucas’ back, pulling him into a short, soft kiss.

“Hi.” Lucas giggles into Eliott’s mouth. He lowers his hands to the folds of Eliott’s coat, burrowing them in the thick, warm material. “I thought you had work tonight.”

“Elodie needed to switch,” Eliott explains, bending down to retrieve the grocery bag. “So I took the early shift.”

Lucas frowns down at their hands as they tangle together. “Fuck, your hands may actually be colder than mine.” He looks back up at Eliott. “How long were you waiting out here?”

Eliott shrugs. “No more than like, twenty minutes.”

“Twenty minutes?” Lucas is frowning so deeply now he’s sure he must resemble a frog, but the thought of Eliott waiting out for him in the cold makes his heart hurt. “Fuck, why didn’t you text me?”

“Because I wanted to surprise you!” Eliott laughs, pressing a kiss to Lucas’ temple. “I texted Yann. He was already at Arthur’s, but he told me you should be back before six. It’s all good, baby.”

“You,” Lucas sighs, and he leaves it at that. “Come on, let’s get inside.”

He fishes his keys out of his pocket and lets them in, and the entire time they climb the stairs, he keeps thinking about how, if they lived together, then this would never have to happen. Eliott would never have to wait outside in the cold.

“Hey, how was lunch with your mom?” Eliott asks once they’re inside, shedding off their winter layers.

“It was good,” Lucas says, smiling, folding his arms across his chest. “Really good. She told me about how she’s started her own gardening blog, and is apparently getting a ton of followers."

Eliott laughs at that. “Really?”

“Yeah, she’s actually made some friends through it. It’s…she’s doing really well, you know. She’s happy.” He takes a step towards the kitchen, the turns back around on his heels to face Eliott. “I told her about medical school.”

“Oh.” Eliott takes a step closer to Lucas, so their toes line up on the hardwood floor and Eliott can rub his hands down Lucas’ arms. “What did she say?”

“That she’s proud of me.”

Eliott smiles, slowing the pace of his hands on Lucas’ arms, until they stop at his hands so he can link them together, swaying them between their bodies.

“I’m proud of you,” Eliott says quietly. “I’m glad you told her.”

“Thank you,” Lucas replies, just as quiet, staring down at their swinging hands. “Me too. She said she wants to meet you.”

The pace of their hands falters.

“She does?” Eliott murmurs, and he sounds so pleased but so nervous, so much like this was the last thing he expected to hear, that Lucas just has to kiss him.

He has to kiss him, and he has to tell him, “I’d like for you to meet her. We won’t rush it or anything, but. Yeah. Sometime.”

Eliott smiles, and it’s like pure sunshine has filtered into Lucas’ apartment, with Lucas as the sunflower constantly craving his touch.

“Okay,” Eliott says. “Then let’s do that sometime.”

“Okay.”

They rest their foreheads together, there in the middle of Lucas’ hallway, just breathing and existing in each other’s space for a second, a small moment of pure peace, until Lucas’ stomach growls and they reluctantly break apart, giggling.

“So,” he asks Eliott. “What did you bring?”

“I brought,” Eliott starts slowly, reaching for the canvas bag, “everything we need to make mac and cheese with peaches and ham.”

Lucas physically recoils back from him. “You what?”

“I swear, it will be really good,” Eliott laughs, digging into the bag. “I also went to that video store and rented _John Wick_ , because you said you’ve never seen it.”

He looks up at Lucas again, with his planned dinner, his wide smile, and a DVD case in his hand, because Eliott is the only person in Paris Lucas knows who still rents DVD’s.

 _I can’t believe how in love with him I am_ , Lucas thinks.

“Fine,” he says, wagging a finger in Eliott’s face. “But I reserve the right to order pizza if the dinner is disgusting.”

“It won’t be,” Eliott says, with complete confidence.

“I still reserve the right.”

“It won’t be,” Eliott sing-songs, swanning into the kitchen and unloading the contents of his canvas bag onto the counter. He pokes his head back into the hallway. “Don’t you trust me?”

“I trust you,” Lucas says dubiously, eyeing the peach rolling around on the counter. “Not your flavour combinations.”

Eliott laughs, and Lucas walks over to him, wrapping his arms around his waist, because Lucas is unsure about Eliott’s cooking but he’s sure that Eliott is one of the most thoughtful people he’s ever met, taking the opportunity of an evening off to cook dinner for Lucas, renting a movie because Lucas mentioned in passing a week ago that he wanted to see it.

“Thank you,” Lucas mumbles into his shirt sleeve. He presses a kiss to Eliott’s shoulder. “I love you.”

Eliott smiles, turning his head so he can nudge their foreheads together. “You’ll love me even if you don’t like how my pasta tastes?” He pauses, a considering expression on his face. “Does that sounds like a euphemism to you?”

“Ew,” Lucas groans, pushing himself away from Eliott. “Don’t say stuff like that, or I won’t ever be tasting your pasta again.”

“Not even if it’s…” Eliott lowers his voice dramatically, “ _al dente_?”

“You’re _disgusting_ ,” Lucas says, but he’s laughing too hard to get the words out properly.

The thing is, the pasta dish is weirdly delicious, something about the combination of the smoky cheese, the salty ham, and the sweet peach. It’s with great solemnity that Lucas leans forward in his chair to tell Eliott this, that he actually made something good, and Eliott preens so much that he begins to resemble a peacock.

Lucas cleans the dishes and Eliott sets up the film. He drags the duvet from Lucas’ bed onto the sofa and changes into a pair of Lucas’ sweatpants. They’re a bit short on Eliott but they’re comfortable, and when Lucas falls into the sofa with him, their limbs tangling together under the duvet, he lets out a sigh of relief he hadn’t realized he was holding in.

This. This was what he wanted.

He’s comfortable and warm enough that he thinks he might fall asleep before the film is over, except the action is so high-paced, so brutal, that it sends new energy thrumming through Lucas’ veins like sparks of lightning. By the time the film ends, he’s practically vibrating.

“That was fucking amazing!” He yells, jumping up form the sofa, the duvet getting tangled around his legs. “I feel like I need to run a marathon or something now, holy _fuck_.”

“I know what you mean,” Eliott nods, folding the duvet back onto the sofa. “I want to, like, punch someone. A bad guy. I want to punch a bad guy just once. For justice.”

“Let’s fight.” Lucas says excitedly, whirling towards Eliott. “Let’s do it. Let’s fight.”

Eliott squints at him. “Do you mean fight like have an argument? Because that’s the last thing I would want to—”

“No, no. fight like wrestle.” The more Lucas talks about it, the better the idea seems, a chance to let out the pent-up energy that’s coursing through him. “Yeah, come on. We’ll move the sofa and we’ll wrestle here.” He points to the worn rug on the floor. “Whoever taps out first loses.”

Eliott’s arms are crossed. He raises an eyebrow. “What does the winner get?”

Lucas thinks about it for a moment, then shrugs. “Whatever they want.”

“ _Oh_ , I like this. Yes. Okay, let’s go.” Eliott slaps his own hands against his chest, puffing it out. “I’m gonna crush you.”

Lucas scoffs at him. “You think you’re a jock or something now? Is it a good workout, lifting that tiny paintbrush?”

“You’re such an asshole,” Eliott laughs, but he bends down to help Lucas move the sofa to the back end of the living room. Lucas carries the side table to the other corner, and pulls the rug away from the TV.

“Okay,” Lucas says, standing at one end of the rug as Eliott goes to the other. “Rules are no dirty hits, nothing in the face, and…yeah. First one to tap out loses.”

“Alright.” Eliott bounces on his toes like a boxer, shaking his arms out. “This is a terrible idea,” he says giddily.

Lucas grins. “It absolutely is.” He bends slightly at the knees, lowering himself into a crouch. “On three, okay? One…two…”

The make it about five minutes.

It starts with them slamming together, with Eliott upending Lucas onto the floor and Lucas gripping onto his shirt, kicking out at his knees so Eliott falls down with him. It goes like that, with them rolling around the floor, yelling and exchanging terrible insults and laughing when one of them slips on the rug, somersaulting backwards.

It ends, rather anticlimactically, when Lucas discovers that there’s a spot high on Eliott’s ribs that makes him squeal and curl into a little ball, a spot that’s so ticklish that it only takes second of Lucas targeting it for Eliott to cry out, “Fuck! I yield! Lucas, I yield!”

Lucas sits back from where he was poised over Eliott, his knees tight on his hips, and he drops down into his lap. “Who would have thought it would be so easy to beat you,” he muses. “All of that talk, and you can’t even last five minutes.”

Eliott laughs, stretching his hands above his head, his chest arching up into a stretch. “You played dirty,” he accuses, his eyes teasing when they land on Lucas.

Lucas gasps. “I would never.”

“You absolutely would, and did, but that’s fine,” Eliott says pleasantly. “I let it slide because I like the idea of being indebted to you.”

“Shut up.” Lucas huffs, playing with the hem of Eliott’s t-shirt. It rode up somewhere between rolling around on the carpet and Eliott’s stretch, and Lucas can’t stop staring at the dark trial of hair that leads into his sweatpants. “Are you going to ask me what I want?”

Eliott smiles, indulgent. His hands come down to touch Lucas’ knees, palming at his thighs and travelling up to his hips. “What would you like me to do, Lucas Lallemant?”

_Find a place with me to live. Somewhere new. Somewhere for us._

Lucas draws a heart on Eliott’s chest. He presses his palm flat to the muscle there.

“Only if you’re comfortable,” he starts, and Eliott is raising his eyebrows, his mouth quirking into a half-smile. “I would like to see you paint,” Lucas says quietly. He feels Eliott’s hands tighten on his hips. “Or at least, I’d like to see your studio. If you’re okay with that.”

“That’s what you want?” Eliott asks, just as quietly. “Lucas, I’ll tell you, it’s probably really boring.”

“It’s a part of you,” Lucas says, firmly but gently, his hands meeting in the centre of Eliott’s chest, then moving back down to the hem of his t-shirt. “So, I want to know more about it. I’m curious, but I’ve been afraid to ask, in case it’s something really personal. And if it is Eliott, then I don’t mind. Really. But yeah,” Lucas shrugs, shifting on Eliott’s lap, “if you’d like to show me, I’d like to see it.”

Eliott lets out a long, heavy sigh, and he drops his arms back to the floor, forming a lopsided halo around his head.

“What?” Lucas asks. He shifts forward onto his knees, planting his hands beside Eliott’s head. “Sweetheart, if you don’t want me to, then I’ll completely understand.”

“No, no.” Eliott’s eyes shift from the ceiling down to Lucas. “I want you to.” He looks…well, he looks so in love, lying there on Lucas’ rug after losing to him in a pseudo-wrestling match, his face soft and open. He looks so in love. Lucas wonders if this is how he looks all the time if they’re both wandering through the world with love written so clearly across their faces, so palpable it colours every word, leaves behind an imprint on everything they touch. He wonders if people look at them when they pass them on the street, together or by themselves, and they think, _Isn’t that something?_

Lucas hopes so. He likes the idea of his love for Eliott spilling into the world. He likes the idea of leaving pieces of it behind for others to find, to pick up and carry with them for the rest of the day.

“Do you know what else I want for my victory?” He asks, sitting back on Eliott’s lap.

Eliott snorts, pushing himself up onto his forearms. “Oh, so he gets two prizes, does he?”

Lucas nods primly. “Yes I do. And I would like you,” he pokes a finger to Eliott’s breastbone, “to carry me into the shower.”

“Right after you talked a bunch of shit about me not being strong?”

“It was said in the heat of battle! I can’t be held accountable for that.”

Eliott squints at him, and he cranes his neck back to squint at the sofa pushed against the wall.

“Do you want to do that before or after we move all the furniture back?”

“After. I don’t want Yann thinking we did anything weird.”

“Well we can’t have that.”

“I know. Especially since we never do anything weird.”

_Eliott — V_

Eliott has a second painting now.

Another painting that makes him smile when he looks at it.

But it isn’t done yet, the painting. At least it doesn’t feel finished, but Eliott isn’t sure what else to do with it. He’s getting frustrated, pacing across the studio and absently tugging at his bottom lip, crossing over to stand in front of the painting, to squint at it, and then cross back to the window, pulling the blinds aside to peer down at the grounds, at the small specks of students moving every which way across the grass. Eliott wonders where each one of them is going. He wonders what they’re thinking about. He wonders what battles they’re facing.

He read a word once somewhere that referred to the feeling that comes with the realization that every person you pass on the street has a life as rich and complex as your own. He can’t remember the word, but he thinks he’d like to try and paint the feeling of it, or what it’s like to stare down at the milieu of tiny people, and feel a rush of affection for every one of them.

But that’s for another time.

Eliott crosses back to the painting, and plants himself there, a brush dangling from one of his hands. He thinks the reason why he might be getting so easily frustrated is because of Lucas’ impending visit.

He brought it up last night, when he and Lucas had been snuggled under Eliott’s blankets, sharing a pillow as they whispered utter nonsense to one another, and then Eliott had mentioned that he was probably going to work into the evening the next day, to try and make some more progress. Lucas nodded, and had told Eliott that he believed in him, that Eliott was brilliant and talented and wonderful, and Eliott had blushed in the darkness but he’d also realized that Lucas had no idea what he was even working on, so he’d asked him: _Do you want to drop by the studio tomorrow? You can see what I’ve done so far._

Even in the dark, Eliott could see Lucas’ tentative smile.

 _How about I bring you dinner?_ He’d said. _If you want to show me what you’re working on, then you can. And if you don’t want to, then that’s fine._

Lucas is always like that, is the thing. Thoughtful and sweet, so in-tune with Eliott’s needs. With him, Eliott feels looked after in a way that doesn’t make him want to disappear. It only makes him want more of Lucas, and in turn, makes him want to give more of himself to Lucas.

And yet, he’s nervous. Nearly as nervous as he was when he invite Lucas to his gallery show, back when they were so new that everything between them still had the quality of a fever dream to it, something too perfect and too wild for Eliott to make up all on his own. They were new, but Eliott had thought, even then, that Lucas was someone he wanted to fully immerse himself in. So, he invited him to the gallery, and when he brought Lucas around to his paintings, he was terrified that he sounded pretentious, that his hair looked terrible, that his art was ugly, that Lucas would find him boring, or, the most potent fear of them all, _crazy_.

Lucas called the paintings _beautiful._ He hugged Eliott tightly and said, _You must have worked so hard_ , and Eliott had shrugged it off, but internally he’d been thinking that he chose the right person to show his work to. Lucas just seemed to understand him, without Eliott having to explain himself too much.

It should be better now, because they’re back together and they’re taking each day as it comes and they love each other, they say it all the time, but it’s the exact same fear thrumming in Eliott’s veins now that was back at that gallery.

It’s the exact same thought he had when he felt himself slipping from the edge a little, felt himself careening towards an episode: _What if he doesn’t like what he sees?_

Lucas keeps proving him wrong, though. Eliott will think he’s showing Lucas something tarnished and flawed, broken and imperfect, but Lucas will just say _beautiful_ with that wide, enchanting smile, and Eliott will fall in love all over again.

Lucas keeps proving him wrong.

At some point, Eliott will have to learn to stop expecting the worst. From himself, and from everyone he loves.

There’s a tentative knock on the door, three small raps that break the pensive silence and Eliott is rushing over to open it, to see Lucas, holding his phone in one hand and balancing two plastic containers in the other. His cheeks are pink, his eyes are a dark, dark blue, it looks like he’s wearing at least three layers, and all Eliott wants is to hug him.

“Sorry,” is the first thing he says, tapping his hand against the door handle. “It always locks automatically.”

“That’s fine,” Lucas says, waving his phone in the air. “I was going to text you, but then I ran into Émile, and she told me where to find your…” Lucas raises his eyebrows, peering over Eliott’s shoulder into the studio, “lair.”

“Right. My lair.” Eliott steps aside grandly, swinging the door open. “Where I get up to all sorts of bad things. Welcome, enter.”

“Why thank you, sir,” Lucas says primly as he brushes past him, standing on his toes to kiss his cheek. “You can do all sorts of bad things to me, if you like.” He whispers into Eliott’s ear, his voice like saltwater over a rocky beach, his body one solid, warm line against Eliott, and then he winks, a bit clumsily, and he’s gone, slipping into the room.

Eliott stands at the door, rooted to the spot, watching Lucas take in the studio in a slow, curious circle, his eyes roaming from finished canvas to unfinished canvas, to the paints scattered across the floor overtop a stained tarp, to the dirty brushes sitting in buckets, to the notes and sketches scattered across every flat surface. He’s hugging his plastic containers to his chest and his eyes are wide, his smile full and awed.

He’s the brightest thing in the room.

Eliott shakes himself from his post at the door and lets it slam shut behind him, wiping his hands against his paint-stained sweats. “You don’t play fair,” he complains, and Lucas laughs, setting the containers down on a sliver on empty space on the rectangular table at the centre of the room.

“It’s not my fault you’re so easy,” Lucas says lightly, shrugging out of his coat. He’s wearing a grey hoodie and one of the Eliott’s t-shirts, navy blue with the name of an obscure local band printed on the front.

“Actually, that is your fault,” Eliott points out, coming up to the table to peer into one of the containers, letting out a low, happy groan when he sees curry and rice. “Is this the same recipe you made last week?”

Lucas nods, his lips pursing to try and hide a pleased smile that Eliott knows is there. “Yep. But this time I added more spice.”

“You’re the _best_ ,” Eliott says emphatically, wrapping an arm around Lucas’ shoulder to pull him into his side, tilting his face up with his other hand so he can kiss him. “Thank you,” he says softly, before dipping back down for another kiss.

“Well,” Lucas drawls, tilting his head back, “it’s not free. I believe I was told I’d get to see the artistic genius Eliott Demaury at work? Pretty sure that was promised to me.”

Eliott sighs, makes a show out of rolling his eyes when on the inside, his heart feels like a hot air balloon, rising and rising and rising. “Fine. But we’re eating first.”

“Deal.”

They prop the studio door open with a chair and travel down the hall to the senior lounge, where there’s a perpetually filthy microwave and a fridge that somehow always has a fresh container of hummus inside of it. Eliott spots Lucille at one of the tables, and he gives a small, awkward wave.

“Oh,” Lucas says suddenly, glancing up from his phone, his thumb posted over a text. “I meant to tell you, Celine is having a party next Friday. For Valentine’s Day, so she wants everyone to…”

His voice trails off as he follows Eliott’s wave, his eyes narrowing when they land on Lucille.

“Hm.” Is all he says, turning back to finish typing out his text.

“I heard you talked to her outside of the bar,” Eliott says lowly, leaning closer to him, “on that day that I…well, the day I got really drunk.”

Lucas’ eyes flick over to him. “I did.” He frowns, tugging at the zip on Eliott’s hoodie. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I know you don’t like talking about that day much, but honestly more than that, I was angry at her, for trying to tell me what to do. And a bit jealous, because she knew you as well as I know you now. It was hard to…process, I guess.”

Eliott doesn’t like talking about it much, it’s true. But at the same time he knows it’s important to talk about that day: with his therapist, with Lucas, with his friends, so it doesn’t just go away. So he can learn from it.

“You don’t have to apologize to me.” Eliott says softly. He wraps an arm around Lucas’ shoulders, gently pulling him into Eliott’s side. “Honestly, when she told me what you said, it made me really, really happy, that you were so confident in us. And sad, because I just couldn’t see it at the time.”

“I don’t know if confident is the right word,” Lucas mutters.

“Stubborn, then,” Eliott grins. “And do you know what else? She also told me that I deserve someone like you.”

Lucas frowns. “Someone like me.”

“Yeah, someone like you. Someone who really loves me, and looks out for me because they love me.”

“Oh.” Lucas glances over to Lucille’s table. “Well,” he says softly, “she’s not wrong there.”

The microwave beeps, as if to signify that they’re all in agreement.

The curry is delicious and Eliott keeps telling Lucas so, taking huge bites and moaning appreciatively, laughing when Lucas tells him to _settle down, this isn’t a 70s porno._

“Fuck, I love you so much,” Eliott sighs, staring into the plastic container that is now tragically empty. “You’re so talented.”

They’re sitting at one corner of the long table at the centre of the studio, their chairs pointing toward each other and their legs tangled together.

“You know this is really easy to make,” Lucas says, scraping at the bottom of his container. “We can have it like, once a week if you want. Like a curry night.”

 _Curry night_. It’s so incredibly domestic that Eliott’s hot air ballon heart might actually burst. The image is so strong, so sudden in his mind that he cannot look away from it—picking up the groceries on his way home from work because _it’s curry night_ and he’s been excited for it since the last one, and he gets home to their apartment and Lucas is already there, stealing the grocery bag from his hands and a kiss from his lips.

“That would be cool,” he says casually, possibly too casually with the way Lucas is suddenly staring at him, like he can see right through Eliott’s hoodie and t-shirt all the way to his balloon heart, still rising.

“Cool,” Lucas echoes, and abruptly he’s standing from his chair, so fast that he nearly trips over Eliott’s ankles, and nearly goes careening into the floor before he catches himself on his chair, cursing about _stupid baby giraffe legs._

“You have to be careful,” Eliott says solemnly. “It’s a cruel world, always sticking obstacles in your path that you can’t jump over.”

Lucas flips him off.

“I’d like to see the paintings now, please,” he says lightly.

Eliott makes them take off their shoes for no reason other than he’s always found it more fun to paint in his socks, and he shows Lucas the two he has done so far, explaining some of the meaning behind them.

“This is beautiful.” Lucas points to the canvas covered in at least a dozen different kinds of blue, with interruptions and soft details of pale peach and white. “It really is, Eli. It’s so…” He chews down on his lip, eye roaming across the canvas. “I want to say magical, but I don’t know if that’s the right word.”

“It’s right if you’re thinking it,” Eliott says warmly. “It’s right if that’s the way it makes you feel. And this one is pretty magical, actually.” He waves a hand across the surface of the canvas. “I’ve only ever finished one other painting as quickly as I finished this one. It was just…I don’t know, it felt like things were starting to fall into place, like cosmic dominoes, and suddenly all of this,” he spreads his arms out to include, _every painting in here, the brushes, the studio, the program,_ “made sense to me.”

“What fell into place?”

“Just a few small things,” Eliott explains, sneaking glances down at Lucas, who’s eyes are still fixed to the painting. “Like some of my research, and realizing I didn’t want to pursue an MFA right away, and us.”

Lucas head snaps up. “Us?”

“Yeah. We’ve been working on our relationship so much, and…it feels stronger doesn’t it? Than ever before?”

Lucas nods slowly, eyes wide.

Eliott hums, sticking his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants and shrugging. He’s going for nonchalant, but he thinks he must miss the mark by a mile. “I think that security that I’m beginning to feel with us, that happiness, it’s bleeding into my creativity as well. It’s kind of hard to explain, but it makes me feel secure and, at the same time, is really making me want to take chances.”

Lucas’ eyes drift back to the canvas. He gives a small _oh,_ so quiet that Eliott can barely hear it. They’re both silent for a full minute, Lucas staring at the painting and Eliott staring at Lucas, silent awe on both of their faces.

“Lucas,” Eliott finally says, very softly. “What is it?”

“I didn’t…” Lucas shrugs, turning back to Eliott and his smile is like a summer rain. “I didn’t know that I—oh god I mean not _me_ , but us. We. I didn’t know that our relationship inspired you so much.”

Eliott blinks once. Twice. “You inspire me.” He knows how he’s saying it, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world because he was so sure it was. Lucas is…Lucas is his heart. Eliott doesn’t know how else he can say it. But he tries. “All the time. You inspire me with the way you view the world, like it’s a deep sea you’re dying to get to the bottom of, the way you can’t back down from a dare, the way you look when you’re having an orgasm.” Lucas bursts into shocked laughter and Eliott barrels on. “I’m serious!Even the way you swear is inspiring to me. The way you can get so angry at the smallest things, and try to take on everyone else’s sadness. The way you love, Lucas. So fiercely and so sweetly. You just…” Eliott didn’t even realize that he’d taken his hands out his pockets while he was talking, waving them around for emphasis, until they fall back down to his sides, drained of their sudden momentum. “You’re like poetry, Lucas.”

“Eliott.” Lucas is staring at Eliott like he just told him he accidentally burned his house to the ground. “Eliott what the _fuck_ , you can’t just say things like that.”

Eliott frowns. “Sorry, I didn’t meant to—”

He never finishes the sentence because he’s being yanked into a hug so tight he can barely breathe.

“ _Fuck_.” Lucas whispers, and he sounds like he could be crying, and Eliott tries to pull back to see, to ask him if he’s okay, but Lucas locks his arms around his shoulders and tugs him back down, his face landing in the spot between Lucas’ neck and shoulder.

“No one,” Lucas says quietly, “has ever made me feel like you do. No one. I don’t know how it’s possible, I always think I can’t fall in love with you more, but then you go and paint something like _that_ and say something like _that._ ” Eliott can feel his exhale against his cheek, feel the shuddering of his ribs under his hands. “Jesus Christ, you’re just the best. There’s no one like you in the entire universe.”

Eliott manages to pull back enough so he can his hands shifting to Lucas’ face, cupping his cheeks in his palms. “Baby,” he says gently.

Lucas’ eyes rise to meet his. Blue, blue, electric blue like a shark at the bottom of a technicolour ocean. Skin like a sunrise and rose petal lips.

_He’s made of dreams._

“You should probably kiss me now,” Lucas whispers, his eyes drifting down to Eliott’s lips.

“I probably should,” Eliott agrees, bending down as Lucas rises onto his toes, pliant under Eliott hands, and the kiss is a butterfly touch of lips, slow and so soft Eliott feels his own toes curl against the tarp on the floor. It’s a sudden, tangible reminder of where they are, intruding on the small universe Lucas and Eliott had built in the space between their bodies, but it gives Eliott an idea.

“Hey.” He pulls away from the kiss slowly, smiling when Lucas moves to follow him, his eyes still closed. “Hey, Lucas.”

Lucas’ eyes flutter open. “What?”

“Do you want to paint something?”

Eliott clears the two canvases to the other side of the studio, covering the big blue and peach with a sheet, and tilting the other one towards the sink, trying to put it in a place where it can dry without any sunlight.

Lucas watches this all from the centre of the tarp, two clean brushes held loosely in his hands, a gathering of paint tins at his feet.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” He asks as Eliott carries another canvas onto the tarp, one that has only a corner filled with shades of yellow and orange, the rest a blank, flat white.

“Of course. It’ll be fun.” Instead of using the easel Eliott just props it against the wall, tilting it enough that it can stand on its own. “This was one I was going to scrap anyway.”

Lucas frowns. “Why? It’s pretty.”

Eliott throws a smile over his shoulder. “Thanks, but it just…didn’t feel right. I was really forcing it, and it wasn’t working with the vision I have for my thesis.”

“And those other paintings do, right?”

“Yeah, they do.”

When the canvas feels secure enough, Eliott steps back, his hands planted on his hips. “Alright, Lallemant,” he says, clapping his hands together. “Let’s see what you got.”

They each take a brush, and choose a paint. Eliott mixes together a white and a purple in a pan to make lilac shade, while Lucas goes straight for a deep medium blue, dunking his brush into the tin and flinging it at the canvas.

Eliott stares at the splatters scattered across the stark white.

“Jackson Pollock style,” Lucas says triumphantly, looking nothing less than pleased with himself. “I read a Wikipedia article about him.”

Eliott laughs, standing from his crouch and wiping his hands on his sweats. “Okay, but if you’re going to try and do Pollock, you have to do it right.”

“What?” Lucas points his brush at the splatters. “But I did!”

“Nah, that’s not it.”

“ _What_? It’s literally splatters!”

Eliott dips the end of his brush into his lilac, then flicks his wrist in an upwards motion, an arc of splatters landing on the canvas. “It should be more like that,” he tells him, when he knows that’s not true, knows he’s not even doing it right, but he wants to rile Lucas up a bit. He wants to give him a challenge.

Lucas, of course, takes that challenge and runs away with it, because the next thing he does is drop his brush to the tarp, pick up a tin of yellow paint, and throw it right at the canvas.

Eliott’s mouth drops open as bright yellow paint goes everywhere: flooding onto the canvas, pouring down to the tarp, scattering across the ceiling. Lucas sets the tin back down on the floor, and turns to Eliott with a sweet smile.

“Like that?” He asks, and at once, Eliott feels unhinged with how much he loves him. How much he wants him.

“You little shit,” he says lowly, biting back on a laugh bubbling in his chest. “Who the fuck is going to clean that paint off of the ceiling?”

“I thought this was a studio,” Lucas argues, crossing his arms over his chest. “Isn’t the whole point to get paint everywhere?”

“The _point_ is to get _paint_ on the _canvas_.”

Lucas shrugs. “Then you’re not being very creative, are you?”

And Eliott just can’t take it anymore, so he picks up his brush, takes a step forward, and paints a smear of lilac across Lucas’ cheek.

Lucas gasps, leaping back, and Eliott finally lets himself burst into laughter, folding forward at the waist, but then Lucas’ toes come into his vision and a hand lands in his hair, smearing something wet and cold into it.

“You fucker!” Eliott yells, and from there, it’s war.

They forget their brushes completely, instead dipping their hands right into the cans and smearing it onto each other’s skin and clothes. Lucas dumps a bucket of red onto Eliott and Eliott dumps a bucket of white onto Lucas and they’re flicking drops of black paint at one another and it’s dripping all over the tarp, rivers of colour pooling into the creases and corners, and it’s insane, it’s completely insane what’s happening right now but they’re both yelling, both roaring with laughter and Eliott feels so fucking happy, so fucking alive, and he stops, staring at Lucas who’s staring back at him, both of them panting, completely covered in paint, and Eliott doesn’t know who moves first but from one heartbeat to the next they’re kissing.

Their hands roam over each other possessively, hungrily, fingers smearing the paint and staining hand prints. Eliott stares at a mark he leaves behind on Lucas’ neck in red, and he wants to see that everywhere, all over him, and Lucas must be thinking the same thing, because he’s tugging Eliott’s shirt off and Eliott is taking Lucas’ off and they’re wrapping their arms around each other, hands roaming across bare skin, and Eliott dives in for another kiss, pulling Lucas tightly to him, and Lucas’ feet slide across the paint on the tarp, and suddenly Lucas is falling, collapsing down to the ground and Eliott is helpless to do anything but fall with him from the way they’re tangled together. They lie on the tarp together, both of their bodies shaking with laughter, their limbs still entwined like vines in the rivers of paint flowing beneath them.

“Tell me this paint is safe,” Lucas groans, wiping his mouth on a bare patch of skin on his arm. “I think I got some in my teeth.”

“It’s non-toxic,” Eliott assures him, rolling onto his side. “You’ll be fine.” He traces a finger through a path of red paint that’s landed on the bright white he poured on Lucas earlier. He swirls his finger through the paint until it turns bright pink, then he draws a heart on Lucas’ chest.

Lucas cranes his neck down to see it, and laughs. “You’re so cheesy.”

Eliott’s finger trails up to Lucas’ neck, to draw another pink heart there. “And you’re in love with me,” Eliott says slowly, tasting every word like fresh strawberries in the summer. He drops his eyes to Lucas’ and makes a face. “How embarrassing for you.”

“Well, you’re in love with me,” Lucas reminds him, and he’s smiling up at Eliott like he too can’t believe these are words he gets to say.

These are words he believes.

They stare at each other for a beat, wondrous and awed and in love, so in love, and Eliott plants a hand on the other side of Lucas’ body, rising up onto all fours to he can lower himself back down against him, Lucas’ arms winding around his neck, hands sliding through his wet hair, and their bodies are crushing together again, lips meeting on an inhale.

It should be gross, the paint making their skin slick, getting caught on their tongues, and it is a little bit, but to Eliott, it’s something else entirely, and he hates sounding like an archetypal pretentious artist, but they’re creating art from touching each other, from leaving their mark on one another, and to Eliott, that’s the most beautiful thing he can think of. And it’s so fucking hot.

That’s probably why he can feel himself getting hard against Lucas’ thigh. It probably also has something to do with the fact that they’re on campus, they’re in a studio and yeah, the blinds are drawn and the door is locked and Eliott knows for a fact there are no security cameras in here, but they’re still in a public building. There could be people right outside the door. People who could hear them. That thought pushes Eliott over the edge, and he’s fully hard now, grinding against Lucas in a way that he knows makes it impossible for Lucas to miss.

He reaches for the hem of Lucas’ sweatpants, fingers teasing along the edge as their eyes meet, as Eliott asks, “Can I?”

Lucas’ eyes cut to the door, then back to Eliott. “You said it’s locked, right?”

Eliott nods, his hand curving over Lucas’ side, sliding down to his hip. “It always is. But I swear, we don’t have to—”

“No, no.” Eliott pulls his hands away and Lucas makes an annoyed noise. “No, I meant yes! Yes, please take my pants off. Yes, please keep touching me.”

Eliott grins and says, “Whatever you want,” and he’s peeling Lucas’ paint-soaked sweatpants down his legs, his briefs following, and Eliott crawls back over him, falling into his arms, feeling Lucas’ knee hook over his hip, and suddenly Eliott is moving, tumbling onto his back while Lucas rolls on top of him, shimmying down Eliott’s body and stripping off his sweatpants.

When he sees Eliott’s not wearing anything under them, he bursts into laughter.

“What?” Eliott whines, shifting under his gaze. “It helps me feel more comfortable when I’m working.”

“You’re so fucking weird,” Lucas says, but it’s punctuated with a kiss on Eliott’s hip, and then he’s straddling Eliott’s waist, sitting back on his lap and Eliott groans, reaching up to get a hold on the back of Lucas’ neck, to tug him down and kiss him.

He rolls them back over, swallowing the surprised sound Lucas makes, and the red and white paint covering them is swirling together to make patches of pink all over their bodies, then Lucas’ hand catches on a trail of the yellow paint he spilt earlier, and there’s blue and green and purple catching onto their skin from the rivers on the tarp.

It’s just colour everywhere. Colour and Lucas’ lips and Lucas’ hips moving against Eliott’s in a desperate pace that has both of them moaning, hurtling towards the edge, and when Eliott closes his eyes he still sees colour, a rainbow of fireworks underneath his lids, one hand slamming into the tarp while the other turns Lucas’ head to the side so he can kiss down his neck, tasting nothing but colours on his tongue.

After, Eliott rolls off of Lucas, onto his back on the tarp and they both lie there, gasping for breath, staring up at the ceiling, at the few splatters of yellow, red, and white there, while the tarp scratches at their backs, wet paint gathering at the base of their spines. Eliott feels euphoric. He feels like he just discovered art all over again, like he’s standing on the edge of a universe of infinite creative possibility. He feels like a giant. He feels like a king.

Beside him, Lucas shifts uncomfortably against the tarp, and then he asks:

“How the fuck are we going to get home?”

The next day Eliott, with a stubborn spot of pink just below his jaw and a touch of yellow behind his ear, returns to the studio to properly clean up, he sees something that makes him pause. Something that makes him think.

He texts Lucas, _i have an idea for my thesis, but i need to ask you about it. can you call me?_

Lucas calls him.

And later that day, a knock comes onto the studio door. Kioni enters the room holding onto a stack of folders, her red glasses sitting low on the bridge of her nose, her braids tied into an elaborate updo.

Eliott shows her the first painting, the blue peach white, and he tells her, “It’s called _Dreams._ ”

He shows her the second one, the dark base that splinters out into pale colour, hundreds and hundreds of tiny fissures breaking up the darkness. “This is _The Universe_ ,” Eliott says. “But I’m not sure it’s done yet.”

Kioni grins, peering at Eliott over her glasses. “Still expanding, then?” Then her eyes travel over Eliott’s shoulder, to the far side of the room, where a section of a tarp has been stretched flat onto the ground, the corners being held down with tins of paint.

“And what is this?” She asks, stepping towards the tarp and tilting her head curiously.

“Ah,” Eliott follows her to the tarp, scratching at the back of his head. “Yeah, that’s something new.”

The tarp is a sea of pink, white, red, yellow, blue, lilac, every colour that could be found in the room, she’d expect. If she squints, she thinks she can see the shape of bodies in the centre, outlined in the swathes of paint, but when she blinks, they disappear, and it becomes formless again. She thinks she sees a hand print planted on one side, but that too disappears into the chaos of the paint.

It’s like moving poetry on a flat canvas. It’s beautiful.

“Tell me this is another piece for the thesis,” she says emphatically, leaning over the tarp to get a closer look at what she thought was a name drawn in the paint. “This is really something, Eliott.”

“Yeah, I’m…I’m actually thinking it might be.”

“What’s it called?”

Eliott brings his hand down to his face, tucking a small smile into his palm. “It’s called _Love._ ”

_Lucas — V_

Valentine’s Day falls on a Friday, and thus, so does Celine’s house party.

“Mandatory pink, white, and red dress code,” she tells Lucas in class that morning, whispering sternly underneath their professor’s lulling tones. “And hearts of any kind. Vero never wants to do a theme because ‘no one participates’ but goddamnit, we’re doing a theme. I’m gonna hit up the party store down the street after class.”

“Hearts,” Lucas says dubiously, pausing in his slow typing.

“Yes. _Hearts_. It’s Valentine’s Day, Lucas. Get into the spirit.”

Lucas stares at her.

“Whatever.” Celine sniffs, leaning back in her seat. “Just bring alcohol and bring Eliott.”

That’s how Lucas comes to be standing in his bedroom that evening, shirtless, staring down at the only things he owns that fit the theme: a white t-shirt, a white button-up, and a white pullover sweatshirt.

“Right,” he mutters to himself, absently chewing on his thumbnail. It’s not that he feels a desperate need to look good, especially not because it’s Valentine’s Day, because that would be really, really lame.

But. Lucas has never been in a relationship during Valentine’s Day. He’s never been _in love_ during Valentine’s Day. He doesn’t know what the rules are here. He and Eliott have no plans except to go to the party, and Lucas didn’t get him anything except a card he found in a shop on the way home, with a cartoon drawing of two otters holding hands. He had thought it was cute, and because he thought it was cute, it reminded him of Eliott. He spent a solid hour trying to come up with a message to write into it, and when he became disheartened with how difficult it was, made an elaborate snack plate in the kitchen and browsed online for master’s programs in marine biology.

Now, he wasn’t wearing a shirt, he had an empty card, and his phone was buzzing with a text from Eliott telling him he’d just left his place, and would be at Lucas’ in half an hour.

“Right,” Lucas repeats, tossing his phone onto his bed and picking up the white button-up, which he realizes, as he turns it over, has an extremely questionable stain near the bottom that he’s thinking might be pasta sauce.

The sweatshirt isn’t as formal, but at least it’s soft, wrapping him into a warm hug against the damp February night.

Lucas sits at his desk and flattens open the card. He’s on a deadline now, so he doesn’t let himself think about it too much, just puts ballpoint pen to paper, pictures Eliott’s smiling face in his mind, and writes down how he feels.

He writes until he’s startled by the buzzer.

His phone, still lying on the bed, is lit up with three texts from Eliott.

 **_i’m heeeeere_ ** ****

**_helloooo lucaaaaas_ ** ****

**_babyyyyy_ ** ****

Lucas’ heart does a somersault in his chest. Somehow, seeing Eliott’s name on the screen, knowing he’s waiting down on the street, peering up at Lucas’ windows, feels a bit bigger than it normally does, which is strange because Lucas is always excited to see Eliott. He’s always thinking about the next time he’ll be able to be in the same room as him, so he can hear his laugh, run his fingers through his hair, kiss him while he’s smiling. So he can feel Eliott’s eyes on him when he’s looking away. This is what it’s always like for him, has been since they first met, even when he was trying to tamper down his feelings to something manageable.

But right now, he feels like he could melt on the spot just from reading a text message.

 _It’s because you’re selling out for a corporatized holiday,_ he tries to tell himself as he heads into the hallway, pulling on his shoes, but it’s not nearly convincing enough to keep him from stopping in front of the hall mirror to check his hair, smooth a hand over his chin to see if he missed anywhere while shaving. It’s not enough for him not to choose a nicer coat, one he’s sure he’ll regret wearing when someone inevitably spills cheap beer on it at the party. It’s not enough to keep him from sliding the card into it’s bright red envelope, and tucking the envelope into the inner pocket of his coat.

It’s not enough to keep him from letting out a small sigh when he sees Eliott’s silhouette through the front door, a sigh that says, _there you are._

Eliott turns towards the door when Lucas opens it, and he notices three things in quick succession: that Eliott looks criminally handsome, that he has a pair of translucent pink heart-shaped sunglasses folded into the open v of his white button-up shirt, and that he has one hand hidden behind his back.

“Hi,” Eliott says brightly, rocking forward onto his toes, his eyes flicking behind Lucas to the door. “Where’s Yann?”

Lucas blinks away from Eliott’s hidden arm. “What? Oh, he’s at Arthur’s. They were setting up this pre-game they invited me to, but I wanted, um, us to go together.” He waves a hand between them. “Anyway, Yann is over at Arthur’s a lot lately. He actually, uh,” Lucas’ eyes travel up to the night sky as he speaks, landing on the full moon still rising and it feels a bit like having an audience, like the moon can hear every awkward word, and they sink back down. “He’s actually thinking of moving in there.”

Eliott’s eyes widen. “Really?”

“Well, it’s not confirmed or anything, but he’s…thinking about it,” Lucas says lamely, and he can feel himself flushing under Eliott’s gaze so he looks for a distraction, pointing to the arm still hidden behind Eliott’s body.

“What’s that?”

Eliott looks down, then to the side, like he’d forgotten he was even holding something, and he laughs a little, his cheeks going red and they’re both standing in front of Lucas’ door, blushing like nervous teenagers when Eliott’s hand moves out from behind his back and Lucas’ eyes drop to the single red rose he’s delicately holding in one hand.

_Oh my god._

“Oh,” Lucas says, his eyes drifting from the rose to Eliott’s face and back down. His heart is doing somersaults, cartwheels, anything that keeps it up in the air, and Eliott is holding the rose out to him, his smile softening, and Lucas’ heart is disappearing into the clear night sky to do gymnastics across the surface of the moon.

Eliott’s gaze drops down to the rose as well, his cheeks pinking from the cold or from the embarrassment of this, of falling into a cliche because you _want_ to, you really want to. Lucas’ card is heavy in his inner pocket. “This is for you.”

Lucas carefully takes the rose in his hand, and before he even knows what he’s doing, he’s tilting his head down to bury his nose in the soft petals, inhaling.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, eyes drifting up to meet Eliott’s. He tucks a smile into the petals. “It’s beautiful.”

“Well, I wanted to get you an entire bouquet,” Eliott says, and Lucas’ eyes widen. “But turns out those are really expensive, so…” He shrugs, and Lucas is picturing Eliott showing up at this doorstep with a dozen red roses, a move stolen right from the shelves of the video store he loves so much, and the idea is gorgeously sweet but also a little ridiculous. Lucas would never want Eliott to spend money like that on him.

“Eliott, please,” he says, dipping his nose down to give the rose another sniff. “This is perfect.” He wraps his arms around Eliott’s shoulders and pulls him close, the rose resting against his back, their foreheads pressing together.

“Thank you,” Lucas says again, just as emphatically as the first time, wanting Eliott to know that he means it, and not just for the rose. He means it for everything. Everything, everything. “You’re the best boyfriend ever. The best.”

Eliott’s eyes crinkle at the corners. He leans in to meet Lucas halfway in a kiss, his hands coming up to cup his cheeks. They’re both smiling too much for it to be a proper kiss, teeth bumping together, but Lucas is fine with that. His favourite thing in the entire world is Eliott’s smile. His favourite thing to do is make it appear.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” Eliott whispers into his cheek, dropping a kiss there. “I hope it’s not too embarrassing for you.”

This is normally a moment where Lucas would make a sarcastic, inappropriate comment, something about this whole thing being embarrassing, but Eliott has a big dick so he’ll allow it, or something to that effect, but when Lucas leans back to stare up at Eliott’s face, and sees the honeyed, sincere affection there, he just can’t.

“It’s not embarrassing,” he tells him quietly. “Or,” he smiles, “maybe it is, but I don’t care.”

Eliott giggles, dropping his face to Lucas’ shoulder. “You’ve become such a sap.”

“I know,” Lucas sighs dramatically. “You’ve ruined me.”

“Sorry about that.”

“Well, you’ve done it to yourself, haven’t you? Now you have to deal with me.”

Eliott turns his head, one eye blinking up at Lucas. “You have to deal with me.”

(What they’re really saying is, _thank you for loving me_.)

“Come on.” Eliott gently extracts himself from Lucas, taking the heart-shaped sunglasses out of his shirt and sliding them onto the bridge of his nose. Lucas watches as he takes a few bouncing steps away, his coat open over his white silky shirt, the streetlights casting a halo over his soft hair. He looks like he’s just stepped out of a daydream.

( _model, angel, ancient deity, whatever_ )

But that was when Lucas first saw him, before he saw the sharp corners of Eliott’s soul, the deep fissures of his heart. That was before he knew him. And now—and now…

( _my love, my love, my love_ )

( _Eliott_ )

“You coming?” Eliott calls out.

“Yeah, yeah.” Lucas jogs to catch up with him, sliding his hand into Eliott’s and linking their fingers together. “Remember, we have to stop and get beer.”

“Mm, no.”

“No?”

Eliott shakes his head,“No. We’re getting champagne.”

Lucas squints at him.

“Fake champagne,” Eliott amends with a grin, tugging Lucas closer by his hand so he can drop a messy kiss to his temple. “Because it’s Valentine’s Day.”

“Fine,” Lucas says, rolling his eyes but he subtly brings the rose back up to his face, the petals brushing across his cheek, tickling his nose with their scent. “Because it’s Valentine’s Day.”

They buy two bottles of cheap sparkling wine at a supermarket, and Lucas feels gloriously youthful and indulgent, kissing Eliott in the check-out line, brushing the rose against his lips, giggling when the cashier raises a sly eyebrow at him. There’s a display of Valentine’s Day candy near the cash, and Eliott finds a container of pastel candy hearts with small, sappy phrases stamped onto them, something he claims he, “literally has to buy.”

“Lucas these are so _cute_.” He says when they’re back on the street, each of them carrying a bottle of sparkling wine, Eliott popping open the container of hearts. “Look,” he says, holding a purple one out to Lucas. “This one’s for you.”

Lucas squints down at it in the glow from the supermarket’s florescent sign. He can make out _t’es canon_ in red, boxy letters, and he snorts. “Thanks.” He holds his bottle in the crook of his arm to dig through the container. He retrieves a heart that’s pale orange and has _mon_ _amour_ stamped onto it. “This one’s for you.”

Eliott looks down at it, and smiles, then bites down, his lips brushing against Lucas’ fingers, the candy cracking between his teeth.

“Hm.” His brows furrow together as he chews. “These are actually kind of disgusting.”

Lucas bursts into laughter.

They double back to cut through campus to get to Celine’s house, passing groups of girls wearing silky dresses and sparkling jumpsuits, clouds of perfume and raucous laughter trailing behind them, and they pass couples hand-in-hand, bundled up against the damp cold and strolling along quietly, pointing up gloved hands at the bright moon.

Lucas gets caught up in it, in the moon, in the sweet, slow energy of the night. It feels like there’s a filter over everything he sees, ethereal and soft like he’s the one wearing the rose-coloured glasses. He’s filled with so much love, love for Eliott, love for his friends, love for his mom, love for the moon, for the stars, for every person they pass on the sidewalk.

His love is as wide and expansive as the universe.

“It’s funny isn’t it?” He asks Eliott as they turn into Celine’s neighbourhood, the sidewalk narrowing and the houses becoming more densely packed together. “That we’re heading back to the place we first met. Should this be an anniversary of some kind? How long has it been since then?”

“Nine months,” Eliott says easily. When Lucas sends him a look, he laughs. “Don’t act like you’re not surprised I knew that. I was the one who planned something for our one-month anniversary, remember?”

“Oh, I remember.” Lucas laughs with him, shifting his bottle of fake champagne to the crook of his other arm. “You were the sweetest, the best boyfriend, and I was such a mess.”

“You were scared,” Eliott says gently, and Lucas shrugs, their hands falling back between their bodies.

“Yeah, I was, mainly because I felt so much for you, right from the very start. You were just…” Lucas widens his eyes, waving the rose out like a flag. “You were so perfect for me, like the exact kind of guy I only ever dreamed about dating. I couldn’t believe I could have someone like you.”

“I thought the same thing. I didn’t think I deserved you.” Eliott says, and he sounds pained, like he’s remembering every cruel thing he said to Lucas when he broke up with him, and Lucas wants to reach out to him, to cup his cheek and whisper, _It’s okay sweetheart, it’s okay. We’re okay_ , but then Eliott laughs, shaking his head. “We were too similar in that way, I think. We’d been told we didn’t deserve love, and we believed it.” And then he says, “But that didn’t stop me from falling in love with you then, at that party.”

Lucas stops, mid-stride.

_What._

Eliott stops too, turning back to look at Lucas with fucking heart-shaped eyes, and Lucas can barely breathe.

“Are you…” He shakes his head. “What do you…” A sudden laugh bursts out of his chest, wild and weightless like the wind. “You’re talking about love at first sight.”

“Yeah.” Eliott laughs too, the conversation hearts rattling as he spreads his arms wide, like he’s inviting the moon to embrace him. “Maybe I am.”

“Okay.” And Lucas feels a little like he’s in the middle of a universe that isn’t his, as impossible and strange as it is, with beautiful boys in silky shirts and heart-shaped glasses talking under the moonlight about love at first sight. He can’t stop smiling. “But that’s sort of impossible, isn’t it?”

“No it’s not.”

“Says who?”

Eliott pushes his heart-shaped sunglasses further up his nose. “The moon believes in love at first sight,” he says, casual as anything.

It’s both the most profound and the weirdest thing Lucas has ever heard. Dripping with indulgent romanticism. Typical Eliott. “How the hell do you know that?”

“She told me.”

Lucas turns his head up to the bright, full moon. “Really?”

“Mhm.” Eliott nods, taking a step closer to Lucas. “One night I was drawing, right, and I was feeling a bit uninspired, so I drew her,” his eyes drift skywards. “I drew her as a crescent moon, and I liked it but I thought it was missing something, and then all I could think about was you, how you came to the gallery to see my work and how scared I was for you to see it, but how you looked at it, at _me_ , and told me it was beautiful. So I drew a raccoon and a hedgehog on that moon, because I was thinking about how it was possible I wasn’t going to be alone anymore.”

Lucas is silent, enraptured by Eliott’s face in the moonlight, by the shape of his mouth when he speaks.

“But after I drew it, I felt a bit weird. I felt like I was assuming too much, diving in headfirst like I always do. I was scared for the exact reason you were, because I felt so much for you right away, and I was scared I was going to lose you from being too…intense, I suppose, and the guys were asleep and the apartment was dark and I didn’t know who to talk to except the moon. So I asked her, ‘Do you believe in love at first sight?’”

Lucas can barely breathe. _God_ , he can barely breathe. “And what did she say?”

“She said, ‘Of course I do. This whole universe is made of love.’ So I said, ‘I think I do too.’”

“Eliott,” Lucas says softly, and he doesn’t know what to say after that. Just his name. _Eliott._

“I’m trying to tell you that I love you.” Eliott takes another step closer to him, and they’re both standing there, under the curious gaze of the stars, the moon leaning down to listen, probably cheering Eliott on, and they’re both still holding their fake champagne bottles and their pastel hearts and a red rose, and Lucas thinks it might be true, that the entire universe is built on love right now. Right in this moment.

“I knew I wanted to hold you. And kiss you. And be with you. Just because I saw you at that party.” Eliott goes on. “Dancing in Celine’s living room, and all I could think about was getting you alone, but then Benoît showed up and fuck, he was so awful to you, and you were so sad when he left that all I could think about then was making you smile. Making you forget him and making you feel wanted. Cared for. Then we kissed, and I…” Eliott laughs again, and his teeth catch on the moonlight. “I was so fucked. You have no idea.”

“I have some idea,” Lucas tells him, but he’s not sure about love at first sight. Despite what Eliott may say he’s not really poetry. He’s not an artist. He’s a science student. He’s a boy who’s had his heart broken over and over again. But he’s holding onto a single red rose on Valentine’s Day, and he’s so in love. He’s in love in a way he didn’t know was possible for him to be. He takes a step towards Eliott, and they’re toe-to-toe now, Eliott’s boots and Lucas’ sneakers meeting over a crack in the sidewalk. “Do you know what I thought, at Imane’s brunch the next day, when everyone was talking about your show?”

Eliott shakes his head.

“I thought, ‘How is it possible I like him so much already?’ Eliott, that first night we spent together was everything to me, okay? Everything. I…cared about you. So much. So yeah, it scared me, and I backed off because I knew that you could break my heart. That coming from you, it was going to hurt more than from anyone else.”

The corners of Eliott’s mouth turn down. “I’ll never hurt you again.”

“You don’t know that for sure.” Eliott’s frown deepens, and Lucas rushes to explain. “We don’t know anything for sure, do we? That’s why we just have to take all of this, everything, as it comes.”

Eliott sighs, bobbing his head. “Minute by minute,” he says quietly.

“Exactly.” Their eyes meet, and it’s slow, steady warmth in the middle of a freezing February night. “Minute by minute.” Lucas pauses, then, “I love you. I don’t know about love at first sight and I don’t know about the future but I love you. You’re…you’re my person, okay? You’re the only one I ever want to be with.”

“Well.” Eliott’s eyes are twinkling under the moonlight. Honest to god _twinkling_. “You’re my person.” He shrugs, and the conversation hearts rattle in their container, tiny words of love bouncing around within a tiny galaxy. “Honestly? I think we’re meant to be together. I think the universe has been rooting for us this entire time, even when we didn’t realize it.”

And there it is, the word that won’t leave him alone, this burst of fireworks in his heart demanding he give it attention. Demanding that he see it, that he lets it take him over, root to tip this word that is just so overwhelming in implication, but perhaps less of a cliff dive when they’re already talking about love at first sight. That’s what this means, doesn’t it?

When people say _soulmates_ , this is what they’re talking about.

“Eliott,” he says suddenly, at once desperate to say it, to get it all out, the idea that has been weighing on his for weeks and weeks. “Eliott.”

Eliott glances down at him through his heart-shaped glasses and his smile is so sweet, like he’s thinking what Lucas is, that tonight this world is built by them, the lovers and the soulmates, and he says, “Yeah?”

“Move in with me.”

A silence falls between them, soft as snow.

“Uh.” Lucas backs up a little, panicking at how abruptly that came out. “That is to say, I mean…Iwould like to move in together if you would also like to move in. Together. To get a new place maybe, because I like my apartment but honestly it’s getting a bit expensive for me, and my lease is up in May, and we could get a one-bedroom and cut the rent in half which would be great, and I know that you’ve been really unsure about what you’re doing after you graduate, and I don’t want to put pressure on you to stay when we haven’t even talked about whether you’re going to stay in Paris, but.” Lucas inhales sharply, feeling the moonlight baring down on his shoulders like a caress. _You can say it, Lucas._ “I love you, and I want us to be together. I want us to… _fuck_ it sounds so cliche. I want us to build a life together. So—so I’m asking you. This is me asking you to move in with me.”

He looks up, biting down on his lip.

Eliott is _beaming_. As bright and beautiful as the moon.

“Yes,” he says, simply, clearly. “Yes, Lucas. I want that.”

“Oh.” Lucas had expected, in his daydreams of asking Eliott to move in with him, for the moment to feel like things tend to feel with Eliott, big and all-consuming and wondrous, but what it really feels like is a settling underneath Lucas’ ribs, like that wanderlust heart has drifted back down to Earth, back into his body. It’s a safe sort of feeling. A warming one.

It feels like coming home.

(And that’s kind of the whole point, isn’t it?)

“Okay,” Lucas breathes, and then he starts to giggle, small hiccups of sound that shake his shoulders, and Eliott is giggling too, and they’re clutching onto their ridiculous fake champagne bottles and their love day paraphernalia as they try to wrap their arms around each other, laughter smothered into kisses, toes overlapping, clouds of breath mingling beneath their chins.

The moon, winter-bright and full, watches on, satisfied.

Celine’s house is filling up when they arrive, a steady stream of people pouring in through the door, all wearing shades of white, pink, and red. Lucas even spots a girl wearing a pair of pale pink angel wings, holding hands with another girl wearing a pair of red devil horns.

“This is…something,” he mutters as they cross through the door.

Eliott laughs. “I love it.”

Lucas does too, actually. He loves the decorations Celine picked up that day, pink and red streamers, paper hearts dangling from the ceiling, the strings of fairy lights in the kitchen. He loves the atmosphere that’s palpable as soon as they enter the room, people he’s never seen in his life greeting him like a long lost friend, begging him to let them draw a heart on his cheek with pink eyeliner.

“Look at this face!” A girl wearing a sparkling pink dress cries, squishing Lucas’ cheeks between her hands. “So beautiful! A face that was made to be loved!”

Beside him, Eliott nods sombrely. “It’s true.”

Lucas shoots him a glare, but lets the girl draw on him, her eyebrows furrowed, tongue poking out of her mouth like she’s finishing the last touches on the sistine chapel rather than doodling a heart onto someone’s skin at a house party.

“There,” she says when she’s done, patting Lucas’ other cheek drunkenly. “So beautiful.” She glances up at Eliott, and her smile widens. “You too,” she tells him, reaching up to pat his cheek as well.

Celine finds them like that, cackling when she sees the wary looks on their faces, and batting the other girl away. She’s covered in red from head to toe, from her glittering red eyeshadow to her red jumpsuit and red shoes. Lucas doesn’t know whether to be impressed or horrified.

“Find someone else to torment, Vero,” she orders, and Lucas blinks at the girl, trying to reconcile her with the girl he saw puking into the bathroom sink back in May. All that looks somewhat familiar is the curtain of brown hair, falling down her back like waves. The door opens to another group of arrivals, and Vero bounds off, waving her eyeliner pencil in the air like a torch.

“Did you bring enough to share?” Celine asks with a raised eyebrow, pointing at the glass bottles they’re still holding. Her eyes drop down to Lucas’ rose and she smirks. Lucas pointedly ignores it.

“If you want,” Eliott says, holding his bottle out. “We also brought some delightful confections.” He holds out the container of conversation hearts.

“Oh my _god_ ,” Celine laughs, taking the container from him. She pops the lid open and peers inside. “Where the _fuck_ did you find these, they’re amazing!”

“What’s amazing?” Idriss slides up beside her, peering down into the container.

“Here.” Celine passes him a pale pink heart. “It matches your shirt.”

Idriss squints at the text. “Let’s…get…busy.” He reads aloud, and he grins, wrapping an arm around Celine’s waist to pull them close together. “Aw, babe! You always say the sweetest things!”

“Go _away_ ,” Celine groans, laughing when Idriss smacks a wet kiss to her cheek. “You’re so annoying, you know that?”

“Nah, I think you like me.”

“You’ll never be able to prove it.”

“Really? Because I have texts—”

“Yo!”

And like a hurricane, there’s Yann, Arthur, Basile and Sofiane, crowding into their corner with the girls not far behind, all of them cheering, pulling Lucas and Eliott into hugs, kissing their cheeks, digging their hands into the conversation hearts. Eliott takes Lucas’ bottles of sparkling wine and turns to put them in the fridge, and that’s when Imane appears at his shoulder.

“What is _that_?” She whispers, pointing down at the rose that Lucas is still holding.

“A present.” Lucas waves it under her nose, laughing when she bats it away. “You jealous?”

She rolls her eyes. “No.” Then she leans closer, her hand touching Lucas’ elbow. “But I am happy for you.”

Lucas smiles. “Thank you,” he says softly. He brushes the rose against her chin, just to bother her. “I’m happy for you, too.” He nods across he kitchen as he says it, towards Sofiane, who’s passing out plastic cups from a bag on the counter.

“Thank you,” Imane says, just as softly, squeezing Lucas’ elbow.

There’s a sudden hiss, then a pop, and Imane and Lucas both flinch away from the cork that goes sailing by them, falling to the floor and rolling into a dark corner of the kitchen.

A roaring cheer goes up at that, and a sea of plastic cups are shoved towards Eliott, who’s holding an open bottle of sparkling wine.

“Oh _god_ ,” Imane laughs, but she falls into the circle, and Eliott watches as she slides into a spot between Alexia and Sofiane, smiling warmly when Sofiane hands her a plastic cup that’s already full of water.

The bottle is making its way around the circle, topping off fizzing cups and reflecting the soft glow of the fairy lights, and Lucas watches its progress until Eliott is breaking away from the circle. His shirt is unbuttoned low on his chest, his heart-shaped glasses are askew on his face, and he’s holding a cup in each hand. He looks like something from a film.

“Hi,” he says, handing one of the cups over to Lucas. His finger smoothes along his cheek. “Your heart’s gotten a bit smudged.”

“Oh _no_ ,” Lucas gasps. “Now I’m going to be off-theme.”

“I got you covered, baby, don’t worry.” Eliott holds his hand up under Lucas’ chin, a single conversation heart in his palm. Baby blue, with the message, _je t’aime._

Lucas snorts, plucking the heart from Eliott’s palm and popping into into his mouth. “Thanks,” he mumbles around the candy. He makes a face. “Fuck, these really do taste awful.”

Eliott’s laughter is interrupted by Basile planting himself at the centre of the circle and holding his plastic cup high in the air.

"A toast!” Basile proclaims, and everyone in the circle boos him good-naturedly. Emma and Yann start a drumroll on the counter. “A toast on this fine Friday night, while I’m surrounded by all of your beautiful faces.”

“A toast to what?” Alexia calls out, and a hush falls over them as the drumroll cuts short, a hush that’s punctuated by the music blaring from the living room, from the drunken conversations going on all around them.

But they’ve somehow made a bubble apart from the rest of the world. It’s as though they’ve created their own small universe in Celine’s kitchen, held in a cocoon of alcohol and candy hearts and affection. Pure, genuine affection for one another.

But god, Lucas loves these dumb and wonderful people so much.

Everyone watches as Basile extends his hand forward, his cup like a lighthouse.

“To love,” he says, and the kitchen explodes into cheers.

_Lucas &Eliott — II_

The furniture in the living room has been moved again, clearing out a decent space to dance but they don’t stay there long, bouncing between their friends and singing along poorly and dancing obnoxiously only for a few songs before they disappear to the kitchen, where they open their other bottle of sparkling wine and pour generously into their cups. They get pulled into conversation, drifting away then back again, always finding each other across the room with their eyes, always staying within each other’s orbit.

Time flows in a strange way at parties. Minutes take hours and then hours take seconds, and someone asks where they are, _Have you seen Lucas and Eliott?_ But no one really answers because they’re sure that wherever they are, they don’t want to be found.

And they’re right.

To the side of the kitchen is a staircase, hidden away a bit from the rest of the party, leading up to a hallway that’s quiet, dark except for a neon pink heart hanging on the wall.

There’s a shift in one of the corners of the hallway, darkness bending around darkness and there they are, pressed so tightly together they can barely be discerned from one another. There is just shape, hands roaming over bodies, reverently stroking skin, gripping onto muscle and bone. There is just air, gasping breaths and choked-off moans being bitten into like ripe peaches.

The reach of the pink neon is short, it’s glow dim, but occasionally it catches one of them, illuminates a smile or crests over a shoulder that’s being gripped tightly, briefly touches lightly shut eyes, mouths parted gently.

In the neon darkness of the hallway in the house they first met Lucas and Eliott kiss until they become dizzy, and the rose has been abandoned somewhere downstairs, given to Daphné when they last saw it, but it becomes a low priority when hands have something far more precious to hold, when desire is a living, consuming thing, when all that can be said on the next inhale is a name.

A name, and then, on another breath, _I love you._

A kiss. A breath. _I love you._

A hand sliding underneath a shirt, an old mark being revisited. _I love you._

A galaxy entirely on its own, away from the thumping pulse below stairs. A hideaway for hopeless hearts. A chartered path down rose-coloured memories.

_This is where we first met. This is where we first kissed. This is where I first said your name. This is where I first knew I wanted to be yours._

A kiss, and another, and another, and another.

_This is where it all started._

It’s late, late, later when they get home, after they make the tipsy, tired walk back, blowing kisses at the moon and serenading the night with Edith Piaf. The heart-shaped sunglasses have changed wearers a few times that night, and the rose is a bit crumpled, missing a petal or two, but they’re incandescently happy as they walk home, as they climb the never-ending steps and finally make it to bed.

One of them collapses into the sheets but the other stops, shuffles on the hardwood floor. _I got you something_.

A card in a red envelope. A picture of otters holding hands that makes one of them gasp in delight, the other wearing a pleased smile, until the card is opened, and eyes briefly scan over the words before the card is being handed back.

_Will you read it to me? Please?_

A short, nervous pause where eyes meet, where an ocean of understanding passes between them, and it’s ended with a nod, with a small, encouraging smile.

The apartment is completely silent. The moon dips low into view of the window to try to hear. The stars press closer.

One of them dramatically clears their throat, standing in front of the bed in boxers and a borrowed hoodie and heart-shaped sunglasses.

_Eliott,_

_I bought this card because it reminded me of you. Because it’s cute and sweet, and because it makes me think of holding hands, which is one of my favourite things to do with you._

_I never really liked Valentine’s Day. Shocking, I know. And I tried to tell myself that it was because this is a holiday like so many others that’s been sucked soulless by capitalism, etc., but the real sad, unfortunate truth of it was I didn’t like Valentine’s Day because it was always a reminder of what I thought I could never have._

_It’s not that I didn’t think I would fall in love—I thought no one would ever be able to love me in return. Not in the way I dreamed about, where they remember little things that I say and care for me because they want to and love me for every part of me. Everything._

_That was my dream, until that party back in May where I bumped into you on the dance floor, and then it became real. You were every daydream I’d ever had brought to life and you wanted me. That’s a fairytale, you know? That doesn’t happen._

_Then the fairytale burst, and we saw the darker sides of one another. We saw the version of ourselves that we always wanted to lock away. We saw each other, deep down, and we couldn’t handle it. We broke, but then we found our way back to each other, because of me showing up at your door, and because of you writing a letter, and because of our friends being meddling idiots._

_Because sometimes, it felt like the universe was rooting for us. Maybe. If that sort of thing can happen. Because this is what it is, Eliott: you make me believe in impossible things. You make me see magic in everything. You make me want to learn poetry so I can recite it to you, so I can try and find a way to tell you how much I love you that feels appropriate for you, something more beautiful and special than anything I can give with my own words._

_I’m running out of space so I’m just going to say that you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Happy Valentine’s Day._

_P.S. You remember that first night, when we were on Celine’s front porch and you asked me if I was coming with you? When I looked at you, all I could think was that I was at the beginning of something important. That everything was about to change. That maybe, everything I’d been waiting for was starting now._

_Anyway, that’s one of my favourite things about being with you. Every time I wake up, it feels like that all over again._

_P.P.S. I love you. Let’s do the scary thing._

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading 💞
> 
> come find me on tumblr for further sappiness [@lepetitepeach](https://lepetitepeach.tumblr.com)
> 
> i've also made a [ko-fi](https://ko-fi.com/petitepeach), if anyone feels passionate about supporting, but of course never any pressure there
> 
> and happy valentine's day to all of the lovers out there - that is to say, any person at all who has any kind of love within their heart, and puts it out into world 🌹


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